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?”