Hell by Hilary Norman

Biscayne after that last consultation – with a six-year-old girl displaying signs of anorexia nervosa – about her role as psychologist versus mom.
    Today had worked out efficiently, and she’d enjoyed grabbing lunch with Magda, had appreciated the smooth, uninterrupted hours of work. But she had missed Joshua badly, and as good as it was to be spending time with Claudia – and they were all being so kind, so relaxed about their staying – Grace was missing her own home, too. She wanted – needed – to get back as soon as possible to deal with what had happened there, before it took root in her mind, grew out of control.
    The bathroom – perhaps the whole house – would have to be steam-cleaned, and they were going to have to rip that tub out and put a new one in if she was ever to be happy soaking again. And Sam had once said that he thought a Jacuzzi-type tub might be kind of nice, one big enough for them to share . . .
    â€˜It’ll be OK,’ she told herself out loud.
    And it would be fine, the house, the new bathtub, their normal family life.
    As soon as he was done with.
    It was on 95, at the junction with South Dixie Highway, that she became aware that an old red VW Beetle convertible that she’d first noticed on Julia Tuttle was still behind her. It was a model she had a fondness for because Claudia had driven one years ago, and they’d had some good times together in that car, top down . . .
    Something else about the car was prodding at her, and she groped for the memory, then, abruptly and more unpleasantly, remembered that there had been a red VW Beetle in the parking lot at the party store a few days before David’s wedding – though if that VW had been a convertible, she couldn’t remember.
    She took SE 26th on to the Rickenbacker Causeway and checked her rear-view mirror, saw that the car was still there, and for the first time she was able to catch a better glimpse of the driver . . .
    Impossible to see his face, hidden by baseball cap and sunglasses, and she knew it was a crazy thought, it was nothing , but still it was creeping her out.
    Call Sam.
    Grace reached for her phone on the dash, took another look in the mirror, saw that the VW’s indicator was flashing, saw the car dropping back and taking one of the Hobie Beach exits.
    Gone.
    The relief was great enough to make her laugh out loud.
    Nerves really getting out of hand.
    She drove on into the Village of Key Biscayne, to her family.

TWENTY
    The New Epistle of Cal the Hater
    I knew I’d met the one – my meal ticket, my very own fleshpot, my passage to Easy Street, and all those vulgar clichés rolled into one – when I met Blossom.
    Blossom van Heusen was old and fat, but she was also pale-skinned and fragrant as her name suggested, and she was kind and she liked to laugh, and she knew more about sex than anyone I ever met, and she knew me right off for what I was.
    Not the killing part. She never knew about that side of me, and I’ll always be glad about that, because I really liked Blossom – maybe I even loved her – and I never wanted her to think badly about me, and I never, ever wanted to harm a hair on her head.
    Blossom was rich, too. She’d made her money from prostitution and two wealthy marriages, but when I came into her life, she was lonely and sick, and I made her laugh and, better than that, I gave her the best orgasms anyone ever had, because I was the Joy Boy again. And I never once laughed at her, only with her, and I took care of her when she was sick, and it seemed to me for a while that there was nothing I would not have done for her if she’d asked me.
    â€˜You’re everything to me,’ I told her once.
    â€˜I do hope not,’ Blossom said, because she wanted more for me.
    â€˜You’re everything my mother never was,’ I told her, ‘and I love you for it.’
    That was when she