Although what did I just say about the brain’s limitless capacity for self-delusion? So maybe she was just playing along, trying to placate me, trying to get me to see her as a human being, and not as some inanimate object, so that I’d take pity on her and let her go. I read somewhere that if you’re ever held hostage, that’s what you should try to do, and maybe Liana had read the same article. Apparently it’s harder to kill people once you see them as human.
Funny how few people qualify.
Anyway, water under the bridge. Isn’t that what they say? Is that a metaphor? At least that one makes sense. It means what’s done is done. And Liana is dead and gone. Well, no, not gone, which is precisely the problem. One I have to solve in relatively short order. I have to get back before everybody wakes up. I’m not usually up at this hour of the morning, and people remember small inconsistencies in behavior. I don’t want a minor scheduling snafu coming back to haunt me.
So, it’s important I get Liana’s body into the ground now. I can’t risk leaving her here. Even with these cooler temperatures, it won’t take long before her body starts to decay. Already, invisible maggots are munching on hertorn flesh, and I don’t even want to think about what condition she’ll be in by the end of the day. So, I’ll just wrap her up and carry her to the trunk of my car, find a suitable spot to dump her. MOVE, BITCH, indeed.
I’m sure the powers-that-be will be organizing a search party in just a few more hours. Maybe I’ll sign up. Do my civic duty. Maybe I’ll even be the one to “discover” her body. Eureka! Over here. I think I found something.
Of course I can’t let them find her too quickly. What would be the fun in that? But maybe later in the week. In time to spoil everybody’s weekend.
Something to look forward to.
SEVEN
T ough day?”
Sandy stood in the doorway to Rita Hensen’s tiny office, watching as the school nurse finished applying a bandage to the bleeding finger of a ninth-grade student, a girl whom somebody had either accidentally or purposely pushed into a locker earlier in the afternoon. The fourteen-year-old freshman already towered above the forty-three-year-old nurse, who stood barely five feet tall in her platform shoes, and whose open face and ready smile made you want to smile back even when you didn’t feel like it. “Tough week,” Sandy said, as the young girl climbed down off the examining table and left the room, tossing a barely audible “Thank you” in Rita’s direction.
“Like they say—thank God it’s Friday.” Rita Hensen ushered Sandy inside the closet-sized room and closed the door. “Feel like going out later for a drink?”
“Can’t.”
“You sure? You look like you could use a good transfusion.”
“Speaking of which, did Victor Drummond ever stop by to see you?”
“Count Dracula? No. Was he supposed to?”
Sandy shook her head in dismay. Victor hadn’t been back in class since Tuesday, when she’d sent him to seeRita about that gash on his arm. Greg Watt had also been absent the last few days, although Peter Arlington had returned. And of course, Liana Martin was still missing. Which was especially worrisome. From everything Sandy knew about Liana, which admittedly wasn’t much—the girl rarely had anything particularly cogent to contribute in class—Liana had never struck her as either bold or adventurous enough to take off on her own without a word to anyone. For all her telegraphed bravado—MOVE, BITCH—Liana had always struck Sandy as a rather conventional, small-town girl. She’d play at being tough and independent for a few years, then morph gradually and gracefully into her mother, marrying young and reproducing future beauty queens with alarming speed and dexterity. If she had dreams of a life outside of Torrance, she wouldn’t acknowledge them. They were dreams after all, and dreams had a way of bursting, like bubbles, in the hot,
Funny how few people qualify.
Anyway, water under the bridge. Isn’t that what they say? Is that a metaphor? At least that one makes sense. It means what’s done is done. And Liana is dead and gone. Well, no, not gone, which is precisely the problem. One I have to solve in relatively short order. I have to get back before everybody wakes up. I’m not usually up at this hour of the morning, and people remember small inconsistencies in behavior. I don’t want a minor scheduling snafu coming back to haunt me.
So, it’s important I get Liana’s body into the ground now. I can’t risk leaving her here. Even with these cooler temperatures, it won’t take long before her body starts to decay. Already, invisible maggots are munching on hertorn flesh, and I don’t even want to think about what condition she’ll be in by the end of the day. So, I’ll just wrap her up and carry her to the trunk of my car, find a suitable spot to dump her. MOVE, BITCH, indeed.
I’m sure the powers-that-be will be organizing a search party in just a few more hours. Maybe I’ll sign up. Do my civic duty. Maybe I’ll even be the one to “discover” her body. Eureka! Over here. I think I found something.
Of course I can’t let them find her too quickly. What would be the fun in that? But maybe later in the week. In time to spoil everybody’s weekend.
Something to look forward to.
SEVEN
T ough day?”
Sandy stood in the doorway to Rita Hensen’s tiny office, watching as the school nurse finished applying a bandage to the bleeding finger of a ninth-grade student, a girl whom somebody had either accidentally or purposely pushed into a locker earlier in the afternoon. The fourteen-year-old freshman already towered above the forty-three-year-old nurse, who stood barely five feet tall in her platform shoes, and whose open face and ready smile made you want to smile back even when you didn’t feel like it. “Tough week,” Sandy said, as the young girl climbed down off the examining table and left the room, tossing a barely audible “Thank you” in Rita’s direction.
“Like they say—thank God it’s Friday.” Rita Hensen ushered Sandy inside the closet-sized room and closed the door. “Feel like going out later for a drink?”
“Can’t.”
“You sure? You look like you could use a good transfusion.”
“Speaking of which, did Victor Drummond ever stop by to see you?”
“Count Dracula? No. Was he supposed to?”
Sandy shook her head in dismay. Victor hadn’t been back in class since Tuesday, when she’d sent him to seeRita about that gash on his arm. Greg Watt had also been absent the last few days, although Peter Arlington had returned. And of course, Liana Martin was still missing. Which was especially worrisome. From everything Sandy knew about Liana, which admittedly wasn’t much—the girl rarely had anything particularly cogent to contribute in class—Liana had never struck her as either bold or adventurous enough to take off on her own without a word to anyone. For all her telegraphed bravado—MOVE, BITCH—Liana had always struck Sandy as a rather conventional, small-town girl. She’d play at being tough and independent for a few years, then morph gradually and gracefully into her mother, marrying young and reproducing future beauty queens with alarming speed and dexterity. If she had dreams of a life outside of Torrance, she wouldn’t acknowledge them. They were dreams after all, and dreams had a way of bursting, like bubbles, in the hot,
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