Dear Killer Read Free Page A

down next to my bed and took the latex gloves out of my pocket. I wrapped them in a piece of printer paper, crumpled the paper to look like a discarded piece of scrap, and dropped the ball into the wastebasket next to my desk. I didn’t need any curious eyes wondering why I had gloves in my wastebasket. We had maids who came three times a week to clean, because God forbid my mother should do any cleaning. She had her hands full with cooking, and that was about the extent of her domestic duties. The maids helped, and my mother was thankful for the fact that she never had to clean anything, but to be honest, their presence made me nervous. Of course I hid my unused letters—I never threw away a single letter; it felt inconsiderate, somehow—and other things as well, beneath false bottoms of drawers and in other such secret hiding places, but it wasn’t much comfort. I wondered if the maids would be nervous too if they knew they were cleaning the house of murderers.
    I waltzed back downstairs and found my mom in the dining room, laying out three place settings at the table, forks and knives and spoons positioned precisely on blue placemats. I looked at her curiously.
    “I thought you said Dad wasn’t home.”
    “He’s not. Sorry, I’ve forgotten to tell you—we have company. What you’re wearing is fine, so don’t worry about changing.”
    “Company?” I asked, grinning. “What kind of company?”
    Whenever my mom had company, it was interesting. Sometimes she had affairs her husband was too detached to notice, and invited the men in question over for dinner; sometimes the people she invited were important people she felt would be advantageous to have as friends, and sometimes they were just interesting people she had met and taken a liking to.
    She had a skill for making friends, and she spent much of her time doing just that. Aided by her businessman husband’s earnings and nearly constant absence, she had gone into the business of entertaining and being entertained. Endless parties, elaborate adventures. Jaunts to Rome, Vienna, even New York on occasion. She often showed up in the front hallway in the mornings, a bag packed, about to run off on another adventure without warning. My father didn’t know much about it, or at least didn’t care enough to mention any of it, and I didn’t resent it—she did what she had to in order to remain sane. She was no longer the woman she had once been; she couldn’t be. I understood that. She moved to avoid the uncomfortable stillness that her lack of murder created.
    She was perpetually surrounded by activity.
    Surrounded, that was, until she came home in the evenings. The moment she came through the front door and we were alone, something always seemed to just slip from her. The smile faded, the high heels were removed, and she hung her white jacket by the door, entering into a place where she no longer needed to run wild in the same way to be content. At home, I was there. And as long as I was there, she had a piece of her justice to hold on to. Knowing that I killed in her way, I believed, was enough for her—she felt freedom through me. She was quietest and happiest at home, when we kept each other company.
    Sometimes I got the fleeting feeling that it wasn’t quite enough, though, that she was screaming silently from underneath her skin. But most of the time she was fine, when we were together and at peace.
    But of course, company was nice too. It was variety. Something different. We enjoyed each other’s company, but even we could get bored.
    As I watched her set the table, I thought, not for the first time, about the fact that she had a sort of pull that I lacked. I wish I had it. She drew people in, made them trust her. If she hadn’t been a murderer in her day, she would have made a good politician. As it stood, she had too many secrets that could be unearthed.
    “He’s a young policeman, very accomplished, well regarded at Scotland Yard,” she said with