Friday: 6:00 am

Nicholas Styles stood in front of the mirror in his fancy bathroom and admired what he saw.

“You are a handsome bastard,” he said to himself, “…and soon you’ll be a very rich, handsome bastard.”

This is going to be the most important day of my life, he thought. He was right, but little did he know that it would be the final day of his life, and that he would be dead within a couple of hours.

Styles lived in the chic part of the Chelsea district of London. He was up at six o’clock every morning and spent exactly thirty minutes jogging on his treadmill before showering and dressing. He carefully set his burglar alarm before leaving his flat. At exactly seven o’clock, every weekday morning, he began a ten-minute walk to Bistro Bartelli for a cappuccino and a cornetto alla crema. He always followed this precise routine.

Styles was twenty-nine years old and a solicitor in a small law firm near Soho. After leaving the bistro, he always took a taxi to work, even though it would be quicker and more convenient to take the tube; he couldn’t bear to mingle with the riffraff.

He was unaware that for the past few days, his movements had been carefully watched and noted by someone he had never met, would never meet, but with whom he would share something most intimate — namely his death!

“Reach around and put the blade up under the rib cage, it punctures the lung and makes it impossible for the victim to cry out. Then thrust the knife into the side of the throat and push forward and down. Even if it doesn’t reach the heart, it will cut the pulmonary artery and the victim will bleed to death in seconds.”