Women like me, who grew up in the same town and at the same time as me, appear to being picked off by a killer, their bodies dumped in some of the beautiful places that I used to roam. My mother counts her blessings; through that special combination of luck and judgement, her daughters stayed out of trouble, stayed off the heroin, stayed off the streets. But we are still women. Women who sell sex on the street are merely the most vulnerable, the easiest to remove and the women whose situation in life makes violent death seem somehow less shocking, less worrying for the rest of us than if it was nice young women being killed; women like me.
I imagine that’s the only difference in the mind of the person responsible. There ought not to be any difference in ours.