Dear Killer (15 page)

So the water was dark.

I exhaled, humming a few notes of a nursery rhyme that I had heard once but couldn’t quite remember the name of. Something about mice. What was it . . . I sank deeper into the water, trying to recall. After a few moments I did. I tipped my head back and hummed a little louder, reminding myself of the words. Three blind mice.

Three blind mice, three blind mice,

See how they run, see how they run.

They all ran after the farmer’s wife,

Who cut off their tails with a carving knife . . .

I lounged and fell silent, forgetting the rest of the words, tipping my head back into the now-lukewarm bathwater. The tips of my fingertips were wrinkled and wet. My hair clouded about my shoulders, feeling like silk on my skin. It was getting very long now. Maybe I really should cut it.

I was deep in thought. I itched for murder.

But I could still feel it, I realized. The uncertainty that had doomed my attempt at murdering Cherry Rose. I knew my purpose now but the uncertainty still lingered, a stubborn reminder of my previous ignorance. That feeling had made its way under my skin, and it wasn’t as easy to get rid of as I wished.

I should wait. I didn’t want to, but I should wait. I had to. If I murdered too soon, I could lose myself again. Perhaps consider suicide again. For a while, I needed to distance myself. Go on hiatus. I had to be smart about this, reasonable. I had been thinking about this in the bath for hours, and this was the definite conclusion I had reached.

I ducked my head beneath the surface, plunging myself into water, opening my mouth to blow out bubbles and then resurfacing.

But I didn’t want to! I knew the thought was childish, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to go claim my place in the world
now
. I wanted to kill and be the higher power that I was. I wanted to kill, for the first time, for the right reason.

But no. I couldn’t be childish.

I stood up in the bath, still for a moment, water dripping down me into the tub like I was a living waterfall. I stepped out onto the thick bath mat, wrapped myself in a monogrammed towel. I looked at my shadowy reflection in the mirror. All I could really see were my eyes, sharp and glowing and mysterious like two fireflies.

I would wait.

I drained the tub methodically, looked at my reflection again. Again my eyes flashed at me.

Yes, I would wait.

Weeks passed. I waited.

As far as I could tell, my mother didn’t mind my lack of action, though of course, I had never been good at understanding her thoughts. We never talked about murder. I didn’t bring it up, and neither did she. She didn’t so much as mention my hiatus. Whatever her opinion, she kept it neatly to herself. I didn’t mind. She could do whatever she liked. My murders weren’t her problem. Not anymore.

I was drifting away from her little by little, and she knew me well enough to realize it; we talked less, spent less time together, no longer felt truly and absolutely at ease with each other. It was strange. It was not so much that I intended to drift away, but rather that I suddenly felt as if I didn’t precisely
need
her any longer. Realizing that the things I had done and the things I had yet to do were so necessary had given me newfound confidence, and that confidence had led me to feel more independent than before, more truly self-sufficient. There was a strange disconnect between us now, and I regretted it.

She spent more time at home than before, for whatever reason. She took one weeklong trip to Rome with a Parisian stockbroker, but that was her only vacation during those months. She didn’t go to as many parties, or see men often as she used to, or laugh like nothing mattered.

Once, I saw her dancing. I came home earlier than usual to find her in the living room; she didn’t notice me. I considered saying something, but in the end, I didn’t—I only stood near the door and watched her. She was pale and faint in the midafternoon sunshine, a white dress swaying about her knees. She moved quietly across the floor, adjusting pillows, humming, and every once in a while she would say a word of whatever song she was humming, and it would come out of her mouth in a singsong gasp.

I got the oddest feeling that every word she sang took something away from her, like she was fading away in shards.

I realized, with newfound clarity, that I didn’t understand her.

I tried to let Michael’s murder fade out of general memory. Small murders like Lily Kensington faded away from me, and then, as time moved on, I washed away my memories of Michael’s murder and began to create myself anew.

It was hard sometimes, watching the news when my mother turned it on while she made dinner, seeing blood on the television screen. The newspeople were always so preoccupied with it. Murders in London, turmoil in the Middle East, videos of people being shot in the streets, pictures of children who had vanished and were found decapitated in the woods three months later. And every time they began to talk about violence, things bubbled up within me. Many emotions, but two were the most dominant: irritation with those who killed for the wrong reasons, and impatience for the day when I would again have the power of life and death. As time went on, the second emotion grew stronger, stronger, wilder, stronger.

In the night sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, I stood by the window and just looked out. The city was quiet. In the distance I could always see the glow of bright lights, but here, on my street, things were infuriatingly peaceful. Nothing ever changed. The streetlamps kept shining, the dog a few blocks away kept barking, and every once in a while a quiet car would pass. The moon waxed and waned, and sometimes there were clouds and sometimes there weren’t, but other than that, the view was always the same.

But I saw the merit of patience even through the veil of frustration. As I woke up each morning, I felt clearer, like my vision was somehow slowly improving. And I knew that one day I would wake up and I would feel as if I were seeing everything clearly and, yes, that would be the day. I waited.

I waited. I waited.

I could barely wait.

I kept Maggie close, with invisible discomfort. I killed to bring people together. She couldn’t understand that death was supposed to be scary, and that revolted me now. But I smiled and went along with her and acted like her friend, because that was what I had to do.

Alex and I were constant companions now. I was something of a consultant to him. We talked, had lunch; he talked with me about his cases, and I steered him away from my trail as best I could with smiles and wit. He was puzzled about the lack of Perfect Killer murders, which usually happened every several weeks, speculated even that the murders were done for good. I pitied and envied his optimism. October came. Gray sky hung over London, low and oppressive, trapping me. The year as a whole had been an unusually cloudy one, though strangely there hadn’t been much rain.

I had terrifying moments when I worried about Cherry. She knew my face. She could turn me in to the police. Sometimes I doubted her, thought she might actually do it. But in the end she never did. Cherry told the truth, and Cherry kept secrets well.

Most of the time I actually managed to forget her. I passed through my day-to-day life slowly, calmly, and I remembered her only when I saw a poster for one of her concerts stuck up on a small, easily rented billboard or tacked up on a lamppost, the corners peeling and her face looking oddly pallid printed on paper.

I did well in school, but not too well—I was friendly and fun, but not too friendly. I wasn’t Dr. Marcell’s favorite student anymore, not at all. I think she liked me less and less with each passing day. I think that I confused her the more she thought about me. I think I was a mystery, and I think she didn’t like mysteries. Maggie and I were inseparable, like two halves of a whole, and I think that strange friendship bothered her too.

Days came and days passed. The world moved on.

And eventually November came, and I stepped from the shadows.

Chapter 16

H
igh heels, businesslike hair, sunglasses, black leather gloves, and a hat to hide my face. I had been waiting for a day like this one for this particular murder. Sunny but cold—the kind of weather that could make a disguise seem normal, and a school holiday too, so I could be here without breaking any rules. The police already knew I was a student, thanks to my insight, so I supposed it didn’t matter if I killed today. It wouldn’t give anything away.

It was morning, and everyone was half asleep. I don’t think any of them would have noticed if I had walked among them wearing Christmas pajamas instead of a disguise. Dressed in black and gray and tan, I was truly indistinguishable from the crowd as we filed like ants, one after the other, like parts of a greater machine, into Whitevale Tower, a newly refurbished office building,

My mother didn’t know I was back in the game. I wouldn’t tell her; she would hear about it on the news later. I wasn’t trying to neglect her or anything. There was just something about this whole thing that felt like it had to be a secret, at least until the deed was done.

It was to be my first murder since my . . . well, I suppose it was a revelation. I had actually been halfway planning this murder before that revelation, but not with the real dedication this kind of public murder needed. I didn’t plan often, but for this one I actually had to do a little research about building schematics and such—not too much, because as always I left much to chance, but more than usual. This was a dangerous job. And yet, it was perfect for the moment. Thrilling. Terrifying. A grand reentrance.

There was a strange quietness to it all, as I trailed along behind a man in a dark brown suit, watching his hair flip up slightly in the back as the wind caught it. I wasn’t anxious anymore. As I went through the sliding doors, I matched my footsteps to the rhythm of everyone else’s. I didn’t take off my sunglasses. I wanted my eyes to be hidden. People couldn’t recognize people easily without seeing their eyes, and so the glasses were a precaution.

There was a series of gates at the far end of the smooth gray lobby—the small kind you had to swipe your card on to get past to the elevators. Naturally, I didn’t have a card. I thought fast. I kept just behind the man with the floppy hair.

As he approached the gate I watched his steps, counted them, memorized their cadence—he approached the gate— step-step-step—he swiped the card, the gate opened—

I fell forward, stumbling past his shoulder, putting on a face of startled apology.

“Sorry!” I yelped as I stumbled, letting my ankles buckle. I fell to my knees just in the middle of the gate. The floppy-haired man stopped. The gate had sensors—it didn’t close on me.

He was thirtysomething, inconsequential, and he reached a hand out to me. Shakily, I took it, feeling his fingers through my gloves. He had wide hazel eyes, innocent eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked. I made sure to stand in the gate, so it stayed open.

“I’m fine,” I laughed. “Sorry.”

I let go of his hand and slipped away from him.

And I was inside the gates, just like that, just simply. Of course no one suspected a thing. I was a poor girl who had fallen, that was all. None of them would put two and two together and realize that I had gotten through without a card.

The man nodded at me politely and faded away into the crowd. I went toward the elevators. I didn’t need a key card for those, it looked like, so I didn’t have to worry about getting to my floor. Good. I stood next to a tall, tall woman with dark hair; I pulled out my phone, flipping through my contacts until I found the one I was looking for.

It glowed from the screen up at me. It was more a reminder than a real contact, a little note with all the information I needed. Henry Morrison, suite 2948—twenty-ninth floor. Left down the hallway once I got out of the elevator; I had tracked down the schematics of the skyscraper, with some difficulty, from old building records. My victim was a high-ranking businessman who had cheated a young man out of his money, at least in the young man’s eyes. The letter was inside my zipped jacket pocket.

Dear Killer,

Six months ago Henry Morrison helped me invest in some stock. I hired him to do that. I don’t know much about that sort of thing, so I let him do what he wanted with my money, and I trusted him, I really did. Apparently that was stupid.

Since then basically every single thing he invested my money in has gone down a shit-ton—he says he’s sorry, and that times are tough for everyone, but I don’t think he means it. I think he was out to get me from the beginning. I don’t know why. But you can’t trust anyone in this world, you know?

I’m nearly dirt-poor now, thanks to him (arsehole). I don’t know where he lives, but he works in Whitevale Tower, in one of those fucking annoying corner offices. For the love of God, end his sorry little life.

Henry Morrison, no doubt, had a secretary. I hadn’t dealt with that sort of thing before. It would be interesting getting past that little roadblock. But oh well, I was Diana—or would be—and I could handle it.

An elevator near me slid open. People filed in. I just stood for a moment, wondering if I would fit inside. I decided that I would. I nudged alongside them, just through the door, slipping into a small spot near the wall, murmuring “Twenty-ninth floor, please,” to a man standing near the buttons. I did my best to hide my face.

People crowded around me. Suits, trim dresses. The doors slid shut with a quiet whir and we began upward. The people murmured, rustled, some of them messing with their phones. I was silent. I breathed. I tried to calm myself, slow my breathing. I was excited.

So very excited.

It had been so long.

The elevator slid upward, and the doors opened and shut at each new floor. People emptied out. I thought about strategy. I had done some planning beforehand, but like always, I loved to act in the moment. I played with my phone inside my pocket, and as we rose, an idea occurred to me.

I was standing just behind a man—I needed something from him. Behind my sunglasses I ran my eyes up and down his body, looking for it, in his pockets, perhaps just inside his brown messenger bag. His phone. I needed it.

Ah, and there it was, tucked just inside his bag, next to a slim laptop case. The screen glistened just slightly. I slid more into the corner of the elevator, sinking in between the bodies until I disappeared between them. I was close to his back and mostly hidden from sight, so no one noticed as I tugged my black leather gloves to make sure they were all the way on and raised my right hand up by my side.

I held my breath as I slid my hand into his bag and plucked his phone out like I was plucking a weed.

A gray-suited woman next to me cleared her throat, and for a terrible moment my heart nearly stopped, thinking she had noticed me. But she hadn’t. She was looking elsewhere. As I took the man’s phone from his bag and put it my pocket next to mine, I exhaled softly, casually straightening my sunglasses. And I smiled, slightly sheepish that I had been nervous at all. I wondered what kind of smile it looked like from the outside.

The man with the bag shifted his weight a little, but I was like a ghost, and he hadn’t felt me. I was settling into it again now, the naturalness of murder. I was regaining my footing. I ran my fingers over the two smartphones, wondering if I should have put the man’s phone in my other pocket so my jacket didn’t bulge so much on the right. Oh well. Switching it now would look suspicious. I didn’t think anyone would notice.

Eventually the elevator arrived on my floor, and with a demure, inscrutable expression, I nudged past a few men into the hallway, pushing my sunglasses back on my head, and the elevator closed behind me, and there was no turning back.

The twenty-ninth floor was the kind of place that tried to look stylish and high-class but just missed it by a little bit. The walls were paneled with sleek wood the color of amber; the light fixtures were modern, large bulbous things that looked almost like jellyfish. But the cubicles filling the office space were old and graying, and the people moving through them looked haggard and overworked, their movements tight and fast, which didn’t lend much of a pleasant air to the whole scene. I had timed my entrance well. It was morning, which meant that people were both arriving and tired. Everyone was settling in for the day, and no one was quite awake yet. Which meant that no one was quite in the right state of mind to notice unusual things.

Still, it was probably best not to be seen at all. There were no cameras, so I was safe from that, at least.

It was too open here. People were milling about around their orderly little cubicles. Just in front of the elevator everything was open, and I felt unguarded, like a deer in the open. To my left about twenty feet down, the narrower hallway began. I turned and walked toward it, quickly but not too quickly, as if I knew what I was doing exactly. Confidence was the key to invisibility.

Logically, I knew this was too dangerous. I was too likely to be seen. There weren’t any cameras, but people had eyes, and memories. It wasn’t safe. I should have found Henry Morrison at home, or on the street—I was clever enough to do that. Being here, in this office, killing him with so many spectators, was absolutely stupid.

But I felt electric, invisible, invincible.

I was so powerful. I couldn’t be caught, not here. I was so sure. I would remain free. And I wanted to prove that to myself. I wanted to be dangerous, and I wanted to be obvious, and I wanted to be a shadow that crept into the heart of things and took a life with me and left terror behind. And I would be. That was what I was meant to be.

Everything was so clear.

I entered the hallway. A few offices opened off it, the large offices of the company bigwigs, and at the end of the hallway I could see the office I knew belonged to my Henry Morrison—the number 2948 glistened in large silver letters to the left of the door, giving it away. It was the corner office, and his secretary’s desk was just outside. She was talking on the phone, staring down at her shiny new-looking computer, scheduling something, presumably. She didn’t see me.

I took in a few details, very quickly, the important ones. New, sensible shoes, meticulous makeup but an old tweed jacket fraying at the hem of her left sleeve. She was a bit tense, and the door to her boss’s office was shut, with the windows looking from the office into the hallway covered with heavy forest-green curtains.

There was a small gap in the wall to my left, situated just where I knew it would be from looking at the building schematics. I quietly slipped inside it, drawing back into the shadows. At the end of the alcove there was a door to the emergency staircase. I stayed a few inches from the door handle, lest I accidentally open it and set off the emergency alarm.

I thoughtfully considered the secretary. New shoes, perfect makeup, old jacket. She was trying to make herself look her best with a minimum of money. And the makeup was too textbook perfect, too neatly painted on for a normal morning—she was new to the job, and trying to make a good impression. But that tense position, paired with the closed door and curtains, told me that it wasn’t going well. Henry Morrison was most likely standoffish, and maybe even a bit rude, by appearances. This secretary was desperately trying to get things right, probably grasping at straws by this point. I could use that.

Someone passed though the hallway, heading back toward the elevator. I froze, watching, my eyes wide and careful. He stared at the ground and didn’t even look in my direction. Once I was absolutely sure he was gone, I reached into my jacket and took out both phones. With mine I did a quick internet search and found Henry Morrison’s phone number, or more accurately, his secretary’s phone number, which was of course exactly what I wanted.

I didn’t send the call just yet. I dialed the number, put my own phone back in my pocket, listened, and waited.

There was a brief moment of silence in which a thousand things occurred to me, the same way things always occurred to me quickly when I was about to murder, or was planning a murder. The first was Cherry Rose, and then my mother, and then Maggie, with her brilliant smile and shallow imagination. It was Maggie’s face that remained the longest. Perhaps it was because the secretary had something about her that reminded me of Maggie, because that was true—more likely it was that murder in any form was now irrevocably linked to Maggie in my mind. Every drop of blood, every bruise, every vicious thought. Those were all Maggie, I realized. She permeated even here, in Whitevale Tower, even in the midst of my work.

I was bound to her. I couldn’t walk away from her. Her journey was locked to mine, and I couldn’t break free.

It irritated me.

“I’m so sorry, he’s here but he’s on a call now, and he’s booked up for the rest of the day. He has a ten o’clock opening tomorrow,” the secretary chirped efficiently. She had the same sound to her voice as Maggie, a little bit, happy but in an uncomfortable way. And she was loud; she was really quite far down the hallway, but I could hear her as clearly as a bell.

“No, that doesn’t work for you? He has another opening at four tomorrow, but it’s only twenty minutes or so—that works? I’m so sorry I haven’t got anything before then, he’s so busy. Okay, lovely. Thank you very much.”

I heard a click as she put the receiver back into the body of the outdated office phone, which looked so strange sitting next to her shiny laptop. I waited a few seconds, making sure she didn’t have another call coming in. All I heard from her was the soft clicking sound of typing. I waited for a few more seconds, and then I sent the call.

I heard the phone ring at the end of the hallway. It was barely half a second before she picked it up.

“Henry Morrison’s office, how may I help you?”

The voice echoed twice through my ear, once from her actual voice and once from the phone, slightly delayed. It took me a moment to orient myself.

“Hello, may I speak to Henry?” I said familiarly, making sure my voice wasn’t loud enough to be heard at the far end of the hallway. I made it a bit higher, a bit breathier than usual, so it couldn’t be identified later.