[ WP ] You are a reputable lawyer who moonlights as a serial killer . One day , you receive a client who has become the main suspect of your crimes . You have to frame him such he is incarcerated while still maintaining your reputation as a competent lawyer .

I'm half-asleep waiting in a deep dark corner of a stranger's house when it occurs to me just how *sloppy* the populace at large is. This man, Kent, is not innocent. He has things to hide. Yet I follow him for a day - less, even - and I know all of his habits, when he'll come back drunk to pass out in bed. 
 
 No instincts, this Kent. His laptop is password-protected but I find the list of passwords inside a half-open drawer. His browser history is there. He likes girl-on-girl porn, big surprise there. His last searches include **PLACES TO EAT CULLINGTON** and **DEFENSE LAWYER CULLINGTON**. 
 
 People like him always need lawyers to clean up the shit. 
 
 I read his sent emails, gauge his writing style. he writes like this with no caps, so i certainly ca n't write his note with them either. There are a few names that are good to know, a daughter he lost to divorce courts, an ex-wife he hates. The man even leaves Facebook open, so I find all of the women he's flirting with, all the people he secretly hates, who he's voting for. You can guess. 
 
 I decide to leave the note open on his computer. I ca n't write with his penmanship, or lack thereof, even if I tried. How would a man like Kent begin his suicide? 
 
 *dear world, i cant trust you anymore. * He'd use that exact phrase to a lover who cheated on him. *i love u sarah. * His daughter. *just no there will be no more pain where i am going* All the usual stuff. It's got to be short and sweet. The more I write, the more I risk a mistake. 
 
 Then, back in the deep dark corner of a stranger's house. 
 
 Right on cue. He's pissed drunk, but at least had the good sense for an Uber. You do n't need a lawyer to tell you that one. He flops onto the bed. I hold the cleaver and inch upwards, careful not to let the wood boards creak beneath my weight. 
 
 `` I see you,'' he says. 
 
 He has a gun. There is a loud bang. I am undone, in the deep dark corner, with something hot streaking across the wall. Kent stands over me. 
 
 `` I saw you all along.'' He's gloating, somehow. Not drunk, not at all. *Gloating. * `` You thought you did your research on me, did n't you? You did n't go far back enough. It was a little too easy, was n't it? Facebook open? Computer open? I enter *your* life and ask for a lawyer? You motherfucker.'' 
 
 He slaps me across the face, but I barely feel it. 
 
 `` My name's not Kent. I am not a suspect in your crimes. There is no case against me I need to worry about. But I am a victim.'' He holds up a picture. I recognize his daughter, not the one from the computer, but the *real* one. `` And I am a former private detective. You buried her somewhere, right? I want to know where it was.'' 
 
 I spit out blood. 
 
 `` Oh, do n't be dramatic. It's a leg wound. Come on. We're going for a ride.''
