summer, the cement courtyard would be dotted with the small jumping creatures. He saw no difference in turning them into splat than adults who’d crushed a bug.
“You’re a sicko,” said one of the other kids, a Mexican who considered himself a badass, but who didn’t like the frog-stomping game.
“You’re a faggot,” Michael shot back, using the word that he loathed more than anything. It was the word Mr. Hansen had called him a time or two.
“You’re a good boy,” he’d said as he pleasured himself against Michael’s pale young skin. “Maybe too good a boy. Maybe you’re a faggot and you really like this.”
Michael killed cats and dogs and found that he enjoyed it. Other kinds of animal murder merely brought him a smile. One time, he poisoned the fish in the dentist’s office. When the receptionist turned her back, he emptied a Baggie filled with ammonia. By the time he’d left the dentist chair, he was beaming.
Chapter Forty-three
The morning light filtered through the cafe curtains that Olivia Barton had made as her first sewing project with the machine Michael and the kids had given her that Christmas. She hadn’t liked the frilly selection at the Linen N Things that commanded most of the real estate in their neighborhood strip mall. She wanted simple and chic, not country saloon. She smiled at her handiwork and waited for Michael to notice them. She vowed she’d wait a week if she had to. Maybe
The smell of orange juice and frying bacon filled the air of the amber-painted walls of the kitchen. The children were still asleep, which was slightly unusual. Olivia didn’t mind. Michael had come in late on Friday, and the kids waited up to see their father. Their slumber meant that she’d have time alone with the man she loved.
But something seemed wrong.
Olivia looked at Michael with her dark brown eyes full of genuine concern as he stared at the screen of the small TV mounted under the white cabinets.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He didn’t respond. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen.
A brunette helmet-headed reporter with a shrill delivery reported on the horrific murder of the girl at Beta Zeta House at the university in Dixon, Tennessee. Michael looked a little flushed. It was more than being tired from the long trip. He just didn’t look right. Out of sorts? Sick?
“Fine,” Michael said. He reached for his
Olivia looked at the photo on the screen. It was a pretty girl, young, full of life. Under her photograph, the chyron lettering identified the victim:
“Sad story. Such a waste,” Olivia said as she poured some creamer into the cup.
Michael looked down at his twin piles of hotel and restaurant receipts and took a swig of his black coffee. “Agreed.” He fidgeted with the receipts, as though he couldn’t find something important. He was really looking for a way out of the conversation. A graceful way out. One that wouldn’t cause worry.
“I’m not feeling so well, I guess,” he said. “Probably food poisoning from that seafood restaurant.”
Olivia felt his forehead. “You know you should never eat seafood if you can’t see the ocean from the dining room.”
He managed a brief smile. It was as fake as could be, but he hoped she didn’t see that. He loved her more than anything. A tear in his facade, and just maybe she’d see him for what he was.
“I know. I know,” he said, excusing himself for the downstairs powder room.
“Oh, baby,” she said, “I’m sorry you don’t feel well.”
“It’ll pass.”
With the door shut and locked, he turned on the fan and ran the sink tap at full force. He flushed the toilet. He did whatever he could to give him a second in which he could let out his anger and disappointment. He paced, but there was barely any room in there to move. He felt the walls move in and out, taunting him.
From the kitchen, Olivia heard the muffled noise and went in search of antacid.
Michael braced his body by grabbing on to the opposite sides of the pedestal sink. He faced the mirror straight on. His eyes were dilated in the dim lighting of the windowless powder room. His mouth was tight, a knothole of anger. He wanted nothing more than to yell out to the world that he was the stupidest man on the planet. A fool. An idiot. All that everyone had told him about himself was true. He had fooled Olivia, but for how long? When would she know what he was? What fueled him? What he’d done to survive?
He grabbed a hand towel and shoved it into his mouth, nearly gagging. Sweat poured from his temples. He reached over and flushed the toilet again; the noise of the rushing water filled the small space. At least he hoped so. He wanted to scream, but he let out a muffled yelp.
Jesus, he was the fool they’d all said he was. The bed wetter. The kid no one wanted. The kid who was dumped off at Disneyland by a mother who surely cared more about herself than her children.
He’d killed the
Jenna Kenyon was.
He splashed water on his face and then let out a couple of phony coughs.
Olivia stood outside the door. The knob turned a little, but he’d locked it. “Honey, you OK?”
“Be out in a minute.” He flushed the toilet for the third time and stared at his face in the mirror. He looked older than his years. He was tired. Angry at the world. “I’m not going to screw up again. I can do this,” he said in a soft, but angry whisper. “I can do this.”
“Honey?”
“Just a minute, Olivia!” He snapped at her, and wished he hadn’t. She wasn’t the problem. She was never the problem.
He swung open the door, ready to face the world and plan what he had to do.
“Here you go,” Olivia said, handing him a fizzing glass of water. She looked worried, not scared. For that, he was grateful.
He looked at the glass questioningly.
“Alka-Seltzer,” she said.
“I hate that stuff. You know that.”
“It’s not like it’ll kill you.”
Michael smiled at his wife. If killing were only so easy. Killing, he knew, was sometimes very difficult and, frequently, very disappointing work.
“Let’s go wake up the kids,” he said. “I need some hugs.”
