“I agree. It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Miranda. Sorry…do you prefer Joanna?”
The woman shrugged, smiling the entire time. “Makes no difference to me.”
“Well then, how about I call you Abigail? That was the name your parents gave you, wasn’t it?”
Miranda’s smile suddenly disappeared. She pulled the rope with her left hand, causing the noose to tighten even more, and her right hand came into view. She was brandishing a blade. “Don’t try my patience,” she shrieked.
“Why not,” Sin said calmly, “you’ve certainly tried mine. What’s wrong with Abigail? It’s a beautiful name. The name your parents lovingly called you before you killed them.”
Miranda went to stand up, but Sin cocked the hammer on her second gun and waved her back down. Miranda simply grinned, re-taking her seat. She let go of the rope and grabbed a fist-full of Sally Braden’s hair, yanking her head back and exposing her neck. Her other hand moved fast, and her knife was inches from Sally’s skin.
“Ooh, a power play,” Sin said mockingly. “Let’s not do anything rash. I just want to talk.”
Miranda cackled. “Talk!” she said, moving the blade so that it touched the skin of her captive. “Okay, let’s talk. But without the guns.” About to voice her disagreement, Sin saw Miranda’s eyes narrow as her expression turned to stone. “No matter how good you are with those,” Miranda said, “I assure you I can slice her open faster than you can pull the trigger.”
Sally tried to jerk away from the steel blade pinching her flesh but it was no use. Sobbing could be heard through her gag.
“Sally, please don’t move.” Sin said, her focus never left Miranda’s eyes. Methodically, she placed her guns back in her holster.
“That’s right,” Miranda said, pulling harder on Sally’s hair. “Be a nice girl and do as the agent says.”
Sin leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring into Miranda’s eyes. “What was it like killing your parents at the ripe old age of fifteen?”
“You think you know me?” Miranda seethed. “You know nothing about me.”
“What do you say I take a whack at it anyway,” Sin replied. “You like taking whacks at people, so how about I try?”
“This should be fun,” Miranda howled. “By all means, take a whack at my life.”
Sin stood. “You don’t mind if I stand, do you? I think better when I’m on my feet.”
Miranda waved the blade in the air. “Please do. I’m all for doing anything that gets the creative juices flowing.” Her eyes narrowed and the smile lines around her eyes deepened with her words.
“You thought yourself to be quite the artist when you were young, but no matter how much you tried, you never did have much talent. At least, that’s what your parents told you. No matter what you did, they just couldn’t appreciate your talent, could they?”
“They weren’t artists. They never did have an eye,” Miranda scowled.
“No, they weren’t artists,” Sin repeated. “Your father was a mechanic, a damn good one. One who probably loved you dearly. I’ll even bet he took you to his shop and taught you about cars. Maybe even taught you enough so you were able to rig the gas line on his car.” Sin turned and stepped closer to Miranda. “You rigged the car to blow up as your parents drove to work that day. Isn’t that right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We are past lying at this point, aren’t we…Abby?”
Miranda white-knuckled her blade, jerking Sally’s hair back harder, further exposing her neck. “I said not to call me that.”
Sin could tell she had hit a cord. She needed to keep Miranda on edge, without tipping her over.
“Fine, then I will stick with calling you Miranda. I assume that’s the name you prefer, even over Joanna. Isn’t that right? Miranda Stokler: the famous artist. The ‘name’ with all the talent.” Sin turned her back to Miranda, knowing that Fletcher was lurking somewhere, covering her. “Let’s get back to your parents, shall we? Your mother, now she was the one with the talent. She wasn’t an artist, but she sure could paint a picture with words. She was an up-and-coming poet. An award-winning, published poet. A lover of Blake. A lover of his Songs of Innocence.”
“Those poems were shit. Her poems were shit,” Miranda squawked. “Poems about beauty and love. Words talking about God’s plan for humanity. All a bunch of shit!”
Sin circled the small room staring at the walls, walls painted much like the walls of the room at Water’s Edge where they’d found Joel, but with much less panache and far less talent.
“She was too naive to realize that Blake’s brilliance came alive in his Songs of Experience,” Miranda continued. “I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“And since she wouldn’t listen—since your loving parents wouldn’t applaud your talent, you killed them.” Sin never faced Miranda as she spoke.
“ ‘Love seeketh only self to please, to bind another to its delight, Joys in another’s loss of ease, and builds a Hell in Heaven’s despite.’ Do I have that right, Miranda? I wouldn’t want to misquote the great bard.”
Miranda pushed Sally out of her way and moved toward Sin. “You think you’re so fucking smart. You don’t know me! You don’t know anything!”
Sin continued to stare at the paintings on the wall. Never acknowledging Miranda’s approach.
Sanchez maneuvered himself along the wall separating the kitchen from the den. From the corner of his eye, he saw Fletcher in the hall. Fletcher was using a hand motion telling him to stand down.
Sin continued her monologue. “So then at seventeen, you thought you finally found the one who understood you. You heard a talented poet at an open mic night right here in the Quad Cities. And to your delight, he just happened to be doing a reading from Blake’s Songs of Experience.
“Finally, you must have thought, someone who understood you. But what you didn’t know at the time
