"The body of 27 year old Maria Tolca was found this afternoon by the Pittsburgh Police Force. This is the sixth woman within the last month to be confirmed to have been murdered by the Don Juan Killer. Police are asking anyone who may have any leads on—"

Walking past the television, he turned it off with a quick flick of his wrist. He was wet, having just gotten out of the shower, and still had to pick out what he was going to wear, tonight. She would be here any minute. He really just didn't have the patience to listen to his own press at the moment. They always got it wrong, anyhow, painting him to be some kind of mass murdering monster; some kind of cold, calculating killer, caring only about his own selfish desires. They just couldn't understand that he was different from all of those psychos out there. He didn't hurt these women. He didn't kill them. No, he set them free. He liberated them from their sad, tortured existences. He gave them the peace that they desired. He loved every one of them so truly, so fiercely. He would never hurt them.

He paused for a second, remembering the women they had identified as Maria Tolca. Darling, lovely Maria. Her tight brown skin. Her soft black hair. The way she had simply whispered "please" as his needle slid into her neck and her heartbeat fluttered and slowed and finally stopped.

"Please," she had whispered, "please."

He sighed and continued towel drying his sandy blond hair, moving to stand in front of his closet. It was perfectly organized: every shirt, every pair of Dockers, every soft leather loafer or spit shined dress shoe in its proper place. Precise. Neat. Draping the towel around his shoulders he picked out a light blue oxford shirt and a pair a tan pants. The shirt, he knew, brought out his eyes and the pants were a nice fit. He wanted to look his best, tonight. He didn't want to disappoint her.

He had known that this one was special the moment he laid eyes on her. The way she moved: short, sharp gestures, like a frightened mouse. The soft pout of her lower lip. Her limp brown hair and dirty sneakers. When she had come up to him in that crowded bar, above the noise of the band and sloppy pick up lines, all he could hear was silence. She slowly sat on the stool next to him, her pale grey eyes boring holes into his.

"You look like a nice man," she murmured, her voice low, deepened by a habit of smoking that he could smell on her clothes. She looked away for a second, down and to the left, and then her eyes returned to his. "I could use a nice man."

He bought her a drink. And then another. Her movements were jumpy, scared, but her eyes were steady. She knew who he was. She knew what he could offer. They all had. Every one of them. That was another glaring detail that the media had wrong, he thought as he buttoned his shirt. They had been focusing on theories of how he found these women, his supposed "victims". Little had they realized that it wasn't he who found them, but rather they who found him. He had yet to approach a single one. All of them, all of his beautiful ladies had come to him, knowing, sensing who he was. They were all hurting. They were all in pain and somehow, instinctually almost, they knew that he could end it. That he could save them. That he could bring them peace.

He had just slipped into a pair of nicely shined brown Oxford dress shoes when there was a soft knock on the door. His heart raced for a second, fearing that he was running late before a glance at the old fashioned alarm clock on his night stand told him that she was a few minutes early. He frowned, slightly, a bit put off by this small detail. The night before, as they said their goodbyes in front of her apartment door after having walked the length of the city, they had agreed upon her meeting him at his place at 8:30. Not 8:27. He exhaled, pushing down the growing sense of unease. It didn't matter. This night wasn't about him. This night was for her.

He checked his reflection in the hall mirror, making sure that his collar was lying flat and his hair was just so before turning the bolt lock and opening the heavy wooden door.

"Candace," he breathed, smiling in his more reassuring way, "You look lovely."

She blushed, slightly, looking down in a demurely, pulling her black knit shawl a bit tighter around her shoulders. His heart raced.

"Thank you, Alex," she answered, smiling. It wasn't his real name. He never gave them his real name.

"Please, please, come in," he offered, opening the door a bit further and gesturing for her to cross the threshold. Again she blushed, pushing a strand of thin hair away from her face as she moved past him into the apartment. She smelled of stale cigarettes and some sort of soft lilac perfume. He closed the door behind her and watched as she looked around, her grey eyes wide in a sort of amazement as she took in her surroundings. He couldn't help but feel a smell sense of pride at the look on her face. He knew his apartment was perfect. He had gone through great, painstaking lengths to make it so. Just the right furniture—not too flashy, yet not too simple. The perfect art and photography on the walls. The right shade of green cloth for the table in the dining area that brought out the subtle shades in the carpet and walls. It was a work of art, and his heart swelled watching her taking it all in. It was a look that he had seen reflected on the face of every one of his darling ladies. He knew that she had never been anywhere this nice, before. He was glad for that. It made this night all the more special.

He moved to take her wrap, hanging it evenly across a hanger in the coat closet, before leading her towards the kitchen.

"I hope you like salmon," he stated, handing her a glass of Riesling, "I've prepared an excellent filet. Sautéed with a balsamic reduction," he smiled, laughing a bit and shrugging at her shocked expression, "I saw the recipe on Emeril the other night. Figured I would try it out." He was lying. He never watched those kinds of shows. Cooking was a skill that came naturally to him. However, he didn't feel the need to share his own views of his talents. He wasn't the centerpiece of this night. She was.

"I…I've never had a man cook for me, before," she replied, taking a sip of her wine.

He smiled, holding his glass up for a toast, "Here's to making the night extra special, then."

She smiled in return and lightly tapped her glass against his. The ringing sound of the crystal echoed throughout the room.

Dinner went smoothly. Candace seemed to enjoy both the light appetizer of stuffed mushrooms he had prepared as well as the main course of his sautéed salmon filet with a side of vegetable risotto. Dessert had been ruined, however, by the fact that she was allergic to the strawberry glaze on the dark chocolate cheese cake he had bought from the bakery down the street. Another detail that caused dismay to rise inside of him, this time directed towards himself. How could he have been so stupid as to have prepared a dessert with a common allergen? He had wanted this night to be perfect. Special. And that included the perfect dessert to conclude his perfect meal.

Seeming to sense that he was upset, however, she simply laid a soft hand on his and smiled, telling him that it didn't matter. She really couldn't eat another bite, anyhow, the rest of the meal had been so delicious. He felt overcome with love for her in that moment, his head spinning for a few moments with the force of it all. The negative feelings melted away and he was left only with a sense of peace. She was right. It didn't matter. All that mattered was her and that he could make her happy.

They moved into the living room, sitting side by side on his cream leather couch. They were on their third bottle of wine, having finished the Riesling with the appetizers and a bottle of Chianti with the meal. He poured her another glass of Red Zinfandel—a wine that he had chosen to pair with the dessert as it would bring out the subtle bitterness in the dark chocolate—and smiled as she relaxed against him, her head lying softly against his shoulder.

"Alex?" she asked, breaking through the comfortable silence that had been drifting around them.

"Yes, Candace?" He toyed with a strand of her hair.

"I…" she stopped, looking down at her hands folded into her lap, limp like the wings of a small white bird, "Thank you. I've never had a man treat me so good, before. This night has been…" she sighed, smiling softly, "This night has been so amazing," She looked up, then, into his eyes. He could see the tears beginning to pool around her lashes. It made his heart break. She bit her lower lip, internally battling with herself over something, and then nodded, slightly, coming to a decision, "I want to tell you a secret," she whispered. Her breath was soft against his lips. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Yes," he breathed, running a finger across her cheek. Her skin felt like velvet. "Yes, of course."

"I…" she looked down again, taking a deep breath, "Men have always…they've always thought I was beautiful. Even when I was a little girl. My father's friends would come around on his poker nights and he's dress me in pretty dresses and put my hair in curls and they would take turns having me sit in their laps, letting me hold their cards and they touched my hair and legs. When I was little, I never really understood what was going on…Even though they made me uncomfortable, they said such sweet things to me that…" she stopped. He put his glass on wine down on a stone coaster on the coffee table in front of them before pulling her tightly into his arms. His kissed her hair. She used pear shampoo.

"When I was older, my father…he used to have me sleep in his bed with him. He told me that I reminded him of my mother. That I was just as beautiful as she was. Sometimes at night I would feel his hands on me, feel him…" she was shaking, slightly. She felt like a bird in his arms. Small, thin. "I never said anything to him, though. I never made him stop. And then I got pregnant. And he blamed me." A tear. He kissed it away, letting the taste of it linger on his lips and tongue. She sighed, leaning further into him.

"He kicked me out, telling me that I was worthless, useless. That I was no longer beautiful to him. He no longer wanted me. I…I was alone, then. Pregnant. Scared. I stayed out on the streets most nights. Every so often a man would come by. Call me beautiful. Take me home. He would love me for a night and then grow tired. I wouldn't be beautiful, anymore. He would cast me aside. Eventually my belly grew too big to hide. Men no longer thought I was beautiful. They didn't take me home, anymore. I found an old building to sleep in. Stole some blankets and from the Salvation Army donation box. Made myself a little home. And then…"

She was staring straight ahead, looking at nothing. He recognized this look. All of them had had it. This lost, forlorn look. The look that told him that this was their reason for finding him. This was why they needed him. This is why they were in so much pain. No matter how bad their lives had been before or after this moment, this was the one that haunted them. He felt his heart begin to race and the anticipation of it. His hands began to sweat a bit. He held her tighter. She continued to speak, not even noticing he was there, any longer.

"…And then I had my daughter." She chuckled, "I remember growing up hearing such horror stories about how painful labor and awful labor was, but, when it came time, my lovely little girl just…came right out. It didn't hurt a bit. She was just as anxious to meet me as I was to meet her. And oh," she turned to look at him, then, the emotion in her eyes turning them stormy in the dim light, "oh, Alex, she was so beautiful." A smile, soft, miniscule, but a smile all the same, "She had these tiny, tiny hands and little feet and this perfect little nose and she was the most beautiful, beautiful little girl I had ever seen," the smile faded. That vacant, lost look returned to her eyes. "And it broke my heart. I knew…I knew what kind of life she had ahead of her, being that beautiful. I knew what would happen to her, what…what things happened to little girls who were that beautiful. I couldn't let that happen to her, I just couldn't." Her eyes focused again on his, wild, desperate. Her small hands gripped his shirt.

"I couldn't let that happen, Alex," she whispered. He felt the breath catch in his throat. She was so lovely. "I couldn't let that happen. So I picked her up. Wrapped her in blankets and held her tightly in my arms and then took a pillow….I took a pillow and I pressed it against her face. She was so tiny," she slumped against him, all of the previous intensity drained from her. She was like a doll in his arms. Limp, lost, broken, "I didn't have to push too hard. And she really didn't…she didn't struggle. Or cry, even. It was like she knew. She knew that I just wanted what was best for her. To protect her. She knew."

Candace grew quiet, then. Staring at the air in front of her. He ran his hands through her hair, over her face. Murmuring soft nonsense sounds, trying to comfort her, to bring her peace.

"I've never told anyone that, before," she whispered. She turned back to him, her lips mere centimeters from his, "Do you…do you think I'm bad?"

"No, no," he answered, his hands on her face. He felt tears stinging his eyes at the look of pain on her face, "No, my darling, of course not. You are beautiful. You are amazing and lovely, and I would do anything to take this pain away from you. To save you from this guilt. You shouldn't hold onto such things. I just want to help you. To take away this pain."

"You can…you can do that?" she asked, her voice and eyes full of hope. A tear slid down her cheek. He caught it on his fingertip, wiping it away.

"Yes, yes of course I can," he whispered, "That's why I asked you here. To take away your pain. To save you."

"Save me?" she leaned closer to him. Her lips brushed his.

"Yes."

"You can take this all away?" She closed her eyes.

"Yes," he breathed.

"Then please, please take it away," she whispered, "Please, take it away."

He kissed her, then. She responded, breathing in deeply, the force of her emotions coming through in the movement of her lips. He tightened one arm around her, pulling her closer to him as he reached into his pocket with the other, pulling out and uncapping the syringe he had put their earlier in the night.

If she felt the needle sliding into her neck, she gave no indication. Her movements became slow, sluggish. She pulled away from him, her eyes a muddled mixture of lust and the drug circulating through her system. "I'm…" she murmured, taking a slow, shaky breath, "I think I drank too much wine…I'm so tired."

He smiled, running his hand through her hair, across her cheek. He cupped one side of her face in his hand, "Then sleep. Everything will be fine, now. Just sleep."

She smiled and curled into him, smiling softly, her hand tracing slow patterns on his arm, "I knew you were a good man," she whispered, "I knew you were…"

Her breathing slowed, softened, and then stopped all together. He slowly moved out from under her, lifting her small, light body, and then laying her gently back on the couch, stretching her out the full length. He sat lightly on the coffee table, gazing at her for a few moments. He would have to take her away, soon. Leave her in the garden in the park that he had spotted the night before on their walk. Purple flowers bloomed their. She would look beautiful lying amongst them. But for now, he just looked at her. At how beautiful she was. Her face was smooth, innocent like a child's. He had restored something to her.

He had saved her.

He had given her peace.