Rain pounded against the window, the wind howling to drown out the screams. It went exactly as planned; nobody suspected a thing. They stepped outside, the rhythmic drumming of the storm washing over the blood staining their hands, faces, and clothes.

Methodically, they stripped. They washed the fabric until the fibers were raw and scrubbed the house until the air smelled of nothing but bleach and mountain rain. The perfect murder. The perfect crime scene. They had their alibi; they had their excuse. It was done. The house was finally theirs.

No evidence. No blood. No DNA. Only the silence remained.

They were fine with that.