We humans are such a melting pot of behaviors, aren’t we? So I can’t help but wonder: If it wasn’t for Reality Ralph’s podcast and the horror of that exposure, where would I be right now? My guess is, I would be living my “normal” — I think of that word in air quotes — life instead of preparing to commit my second murder. If it weren’t for that podcast, I would never have sought the identity of the man who sent those awful messages and pictures. I would never have bought a gun. I never would have taken a life.
Of course, even so — and here is where it gets interesting — killing McAndrews could have been — should have been — the end of it. I’d gotten my revenge. His murder would never be linked back to me. It would all work out.
That had been my plan.
But then, when I was face-to-face with McAndrews, when I pulled that trigger the first time. Then a second time. Then a third...
Do you know what I discovered?
When I am completely honest with myself, do you know what I realized?
I liked it. A lot.
I liked killing him.
We’ve all read books and seen movies about psychotic killers, how they can’t stop themselves, how they grow addicted to the adrenaline rush, how they start as children with small animals. You hear about a neighbor’s cat going missing. Then a dog. That’s how they say it works. A slow build. I used to believe that.
I don’t anymore.
I believe that if I hadn’t been forced to kill, I would have never discovered this high. I would have just lived my life. Like you. Like most people. This need, this hunger, would have stayed dormant.
But once I pulled that trigger...
Is “bliss” the right word? Or is it more like a compulsion?
I don’t know.
Once I killed Henry McAndrews — once I got that taste — I knew that there was no going back.
It changed me. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. Not out of guilt. I didn’t care a lick about that. I was obsessed with thoughts of pulling the trigger and the way his head exploded in a mist of red. More than that, I was — I am — obsessed with when I can experience that again.
So I think to myself: If it wasn’t for the Reality Ralph podcast, if it wasn’t for the shame and abuse and betrayal, I would have lived my entire life not knowing this feeling, never experiencing this high — and low.
Would that have been a better or worse life? I’m not sure. For certain, it would have been an inauthentic life.
I’m smiling thinking about all this, and that is terrifying to Katherine. I’ve let go of the old ways, of life’s niceties, of the daily masks we wear. It’s so damn freeing — living life on its own terms.
I don’t really want to kill Katherine. My future goal — the way I plan to justify what I’m doing — is to only kill those who deserve it. That’s why I need the list of names. I will kill those who troll and get their jollies by anonymously hurting others.
That’s not Katherine Frole. She means well.
But I also recognize that my “I have something on you, you have something on me” argument is extraordinarily weak. Odds are that she would eventually tell the authorities, even if it meant mild trouble for her.
Ergo, there is no way I can let her live.
Katherine is eager to please me now. She types on her computer and spins the monitor my way.
“Here are all the names,” she says, her voice choking up. “I won’t say a word. I promise. Please, I have a family, I have children—”
I pull the trigger three times.
Just like last time.
Chapter Nineteen
When Wilde arrived, Vicky Chiba, Peter Bennett’s sister, was gardening in her backyard. She wore gardening gloves so thick they made her hands look like Mickey Mouse’s. Her eyes were down, a hand trowel working on the loose dirt.
Wilde had decided on the direct approach. Before she could even turn around, he said, “You lied to me.”
Vicky spun her head toward him. “Wilde?”
“You said you’d check your family tree for me.”
“Yes, of course. I will, I promise. What’s wrong?”
“My colleague met with Jenn.”
“Right. So?”
“She said that Peter was adopted.”
Her mouth went slack.
“Vicky?”
“Jenn said that?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes. “So Peter told her. I didn’t know.”
“It’s true?”
Vicky slowly nodded her head.
“So you’re not genetically related to me. Your parents, your other two siblings, none of you share my blood.”
Vicky just looked at him.
“Why did you lie to me?” Wilde asked.
“I didn’t lie.” She squirmed. “I just didn’t think it was my place to tell you. Peter didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Do you know anything about his birth family?”
Vicky exhaled, stood, and brushed herself off. “Let’s go inside. I’ll tell you everything. But one thing first: Did you find Peter?”
“Weren’t you sure he was dead?”
“I was, yes. But not anymore.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I thought Peter killed himself because of the fallout with PB&J and that podcast.”
“And now?”
“Now my brother is related to you by blood.”
“So?”
“So now I’m thinking whatever happened to him,” she said slowly, “maybe it isn’t about Jenn and that show. Maybe there’s something more.”
“Like what?”
“Like you, Wilde. Like whatever happened to you as a child, I don’t know, somehow years later, the echo of that came down to him.”
Wilde stood there, not sure what to say.
“I need a second,” she said. “This is very upsetting. But I’ll tell you everything.”
Vicky Chiba prepared a “healing herbal tea” she claimed was “magically medicinal.” Wilde wanted her to get to the point, but there was a time to crowd in and a time to give space. He bided his time and watched her. Her focus on preparing the tea was total, her movements deliberate. Rather than store-bought tea bags, she used loose tea leaves and a strainer. Her kettle had a gray stone finish and a wood-pattern handle and whistled loudly when it was ready. One of the ceramic teacups read “Om Namaste” (she gave that one to him), while the other read “What We Think, We Become — Buddha.”
She took a sip of tea. Wilde did likewise. There were hints of ginger and lilacs. She took another sip. He waited. She put the cup down then and pushed it away from her.
“One day nearly thirty years ago, my parents came home from what was supposed to be a Florida vacation. I don’t remember how long they were gone. The three of us — me, Kelly, and Silas — stayed with Mrs. Tromans. That was our babysitter back then. She was a nice old woman.” Vicky shook her head, reached for the tea, stopped, and put her hand back in her lap. “Anyway, we were living in Memphis at the time. I remember my dad picking the three of us up at Mrs. Tromans’s. He was acting all weird and faking being excited. He said we were moving to a great big new home. Silas, he was only like two or three years old, but Kelly and I were old enough to get what was going on. I remember looking at Kelly. She started sobbing. She was worried because her friend Lilly was having her eleventh birthday party at a Chuck E. Cheese that Friday, and she really wanted to go. I asked where Mommy was. Dad said that she was at our new house and couldn’t wait to see us. Anyway, we drove for a long time. Kelly cried for hours. When we finally arrived, Mom was there — with a baby boy. She told us this was our new brother, Peter.”
Vicky held up a hand. “I know I should have told you, but you have to understand. We never talked about it. Even back then. Telling you would have been, I don’t know, a family betrayal. I know this sounds crazy, but my mom and dad just said, ‘This is your brother Peter.’ No explanation — not at first anyway. I remember they were all smiles and acting excited, but even to me and Kelly, it felt forced. They were trying to sell it, you know, with ‘Won’t it be nice for Silas to have a little brother?’ and ‘Isn’t this just the most wonderful surprise?’ And I remember Kelly asking where the baby came from, and my father just said, ‘Oh, honey, the same place you did.’”