me,' I said.
'Or is it the third?'
'I don't care,' Amanda said, leaning down. Her hands rested on my thighs, sending waves of electricity up my body.
'I'm sorry for leaving the other night. But when I saw you and Mya outside, I-'
'Stop,' I said. 'You don't have to explain anything.' I wanted to stroke her hair with both hands, to hold her face with unscarred palms. 'About Mya, it was nothing, it…'
'Stop. I don't want to talk about her. Not now, not ever.'
I nodded. She was still wearing her work clothes-a smart black skirt, a white blouse under a fitted black vest. I remembered the first time I met her-Amanda sitting in her car, wearing a simple tank top fit to her toned body, the floor of her Toyota strewn with empty fast-food wrappers. There weren't many girls like her, who could look stunning both in elegant work clothes and pajamas. Who looked beautiful when they tried, and even more so when they didn't.
I mustered up some strength, leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips. She was slightly surprised, but after a moment she pressed back hard. I could taste her strawberry lip gloss, felt her hand as it came up to cradle my face. The throbbing in my head and my hand quieted to a dull ache as
Amanda straddled my legs, supported her body against my chest and kissed me harder and more passionately than she had in a long time.
Adrenaline began to kick in, and keeping my injured hand to the side I began to slide my good hand along her body. Up her side, across her chest, between her breasts. I felt her heart beating faster, her breath quickening. She ground against me, started to kiss my neck. I brought my right hand up, careful not to flex it too much, but Amanda took it and held it against the sofa.
'This stays here,' she said between ragged breaths. She raised her arms and eased off her vest. I eased off her blouse with my good hand, pressed my palm against her bare skin, ran it up toward her bra, then underneath, cupping her warm breasts in my hand. Amanda sighed, reached behind and unhooked the clasp, letting the clothing fall free.
She stood up, giving me a moment to gaze at her body. A moment later my pants and her skirt were undone and she managed to slip off my boxers. Amanda eased on top of me again until I was inside of her. We both groaned and began to move back and forth, up and down.
'I want to be so close to you.' She sighed, her movements growing faster and faster. 'I love you, Henry.'
'I love you, too,' I managed to gasp, as we rocked violently for another minute before collapsing onto the couch,
Amanda's sweat-glistened body rising and falling against mine. Our lips found each other one more time, and then we fell asleep intertwined, as all the pain faded away.
34
Jack O'Donnell sat at his keyboard, fingers flying as he typed away on the only story that currently mattered to him.
When he told Wallace he was going to write it for the
Gazette- they had to cover it, after all, as the crime was committed by a man who'd already killed four people-there was no argument, only a solemn nod and an assumption that the most accurate and unbiased story would be written. Wallace did point out that the Gazette would have an exclusive-the only paper in town to interview the victim, Henry Parker. All the other news organizations would simply have to credit
Jack's piece when they quoted from it.
Jack had arrived at the hospital less than ten minutes after the ambulance arrived with Henry. He'd watched them unload the stretcher. He saw Amanda leap out, doing her best to hold back tears. Jack offered a terse hello, then asked how Henry was doing. She said they didn't know, that he needed a CAT scan and that his hand was hurt something bad. Amanda looked at Jack in a way that made his stomach feel hollow, like somehow he'd been responsible for the attack.
He waited as they made sure there was no cranial bleeding, no fractures. When the tests confirmed a grade one concussion Jack sighed in relief, said goodbye to Amanda, and left.
He went straight back to the office, locked himself in a conference room, pulled a flask of whiskey from his pocket and drank until his eyes were ruddy and the tears of frustration were sufficiently dammed up.
A year ago, when Henry had recovered after being shot,
Jack had viewed him merely as a young reporter with potential. It was a professional relationship, nothing more, one that could be severed at any time for a multitude of reasons. Over the past twelve months, however, Henry had become more.
For a man in his sixties who hadn't spoken to his own offspring in more than a decade, Henry Parker was the closest thing to a son Jack O'Donnell had ever known.
Jack was a legend. He knew this, but did not brandish his legacy like some vulgar bayonet. Instead he cloaked himself in it, remembered it every time he began a story, every time he followed a lead. Jack had torn through three marriages because he simply could not perform the duties most women expected of a husband. He would not come home when they pleased. He would not offer comfort or solace with any regularity. He stayed out late, drank often, was surly and emotionless depending on how a story was evolving. Every relationship was a bell curve.
Passion and romance rose to a peak, then fell into a trough until they flatlined. And when that happened, it was time to move on.
But it made him a great reporter. He devoted himself to the craft, and in doing so became something more than just a newsman. Within Henry, Jack could see the same potential. He would have to make sacrifices. Sacrifices ordinary men could never make. Family, friends, even some happiness. But by doing so Henry would become what Jack believed he could be: someone who made a difference.
Someone whose work lived on.
Amanda seemed like a nice enough girl, yet every loose thread a man had was one that could be pulled. One that could be leveraged. If a man had nothing, he risked nothing, and would stop at nothing. A woman could hold him back.
Love could make him soft. Jack was unsure if he'd ever truly been in love, though if he had he would have retired ages ago, spent his elder years in some pastel retirement community, flitting about in golf carts and wearing pants with shameful plaid designs. Eating lunch at 'the club' with the other retirees before they went out and shot a hundred and fifty on the back nine. That was no life for him. That was no life at all.
He gulped down another hot sip of coffee, laced with just enough Baileys to give it a little kick, keep his blood pumping.
He typed in his byline and got ready to send it off. It would be in tomorrow's national edition. He knew many people thought this killer was some sort of twisted hero, knocking off people whose deaths would somehow benefit the common good. They didn't think about the monster beneath, just what it took to pull a trigger and end someone's life. The families shattered. The soullessness of it all.
Jack was too old to go chasing villains. That was a job for a younger man, one ready to claim the mantle for his own.
And Jack knew that if Henry kept his head on straight, snipped off any loose threads, the story would be fully told.
And he could only hope it was told before the next victim fell.
35
