Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Me: It’s either that or scream and cry.
Hana: Muriel has been stress baking.
Muriel: I have rhubarb pie, maple cinnamon rolls, and some fudge that’s setting.
Me: We need to get together and fall into a sugar coma. This is of the utmost importance.
Hana: Wonder what he was doing in Toronto.
Muriel: Putting as much distance between here and himself as possible.
Me: Yeah. That’s my guess too.
Hana: Has anyone heard anything about the corrections officer?
Muriel: Nothing yet.
Me: I have a bad feeling.
Hana: I feel for her husband.
Muriel: Yes.
Me: Guess we just wait and see.
Normal life is sitting on my ass and doing hours of data entry. I delete any and all emails requesting a comment or asking for an interview. Including the one from a publisher asking me to write a book about my experiences. I don’t know how to write a book. What a joke. Though I guess they would pair me with a ghostwriter or something.
There are already books out there by people like me. I’m not sure I have anything interesting to add to the conversation. And surviving my ex seems too raw right now. What with the threat of him hanging over my head so recently. However, the presence of people like him is not necessarily something that will be absent from society anytime soon.
There were almost three hundred known serial killers active in the country during the seventies. Those figures dropped significantly in the new century for a wide array of reasons. Such as advances in forensic science, incarceration rates, surveillance cameras, digital tracking, and so on. But there are still some out there.
I want to be more than a survivor or a victim. Though I do kind of wonder what it would be like to meet people like me. Ones who have gone through some wild shit and come out the other side. But that idea leads to leaving the house and meeting people and trying to make friends, which I am awful at. Just awful.
By midday I’m standing in the backyard with my third cup of extra-strength coffee. Auggie is busy doing his thing. And the sun is horribly, insistently bright. Just this big ball of fire in the sky. I should have worn my sunglasses.
“I’m going inside,” I tell the dog. “You don’t need me to watch while you do your thing. Scratch at the door when you’re ready to come back in.”
He seems vaguely disappointed. Like how dare I not want to stand there and watch the marvel that is him peeing. But soon enough, he returns to sniffing at something in the corner of the yard.
I head inside, through the kitchen and into the dining room. It takes a while to adjust to the dim light inside the house. And another moment to notice the thing sitting in the living room in the black leather and chrome armchair. What was once Grandma’s favorite seat for watching TV.
Long blonde hair falls over unmoving shoulders and blank blood-red eyes stare straight ahead. There’s no doubting she’s dead. Maggie Young, the corrections officer, doesn’t seem as calm and competent now. Just awfully, unnaturally still. And the marks on her throat are horrific and all too familiar. Suddenly, I’m locked inside my body. The terror is so intense I can’t move.
Ryan smiles at me from where he sits at his ease on the sofa. “Hi, Sidney.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My ex was always a golden god. Muscular, with a classically handsome face. People would watch as he walked by. He just exuded confidence and swagger. His short hair isn’t as blonde as it used to be. Guess he’s been seeing less of the sun these days. And his muscle mass has gone from lean and mean to overboard. Working out was apparently right up there with therapy and finding religion while he was incarcerated. What a reach it was to hope he’d take up a craft. Watercolors, or something low-key.
His prison uniform has been swapped for a pair of jeans and a striped henley with a pair of designer tennis shoes. He always loved brand names. A gray ball cap sits on the coffee table. There’s a fresh scratch on his cheek, along with a sheen of sweat on his face. Strangling someone to death takes a good amount of effort.
“It’s good to see you,” he says. “How have you been?”
“Fine. You know…a few ups and downs.”
“Can’t believe you used the date of your mom’s passing as your security code. And they say I am obsessed with dead things.”
“That was a mistake,” I agree. “Are we just going to ignore your latest victim here?”
He sets his ankle on the opposite knee. Great that he’s so comfortable. “She served her purpose. It was time for her to go.”
Watching Dianne die had left me numb. She had just attempted to kill me, after all, in the name of a man I truly, deeply hated. But having this woman’s body displayed in my living room is making my skin crawl. That could of course also be due to the company I’m keeping. This is my home. My safe space. And he has invaded and contaminated it.