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Liam eyes me suspiciously but also in a way that says he isn’t worried at all. Me, on the other hand, I have a bad feeling. A familiar bad feeling. The kind that creeps up and lingers. Helpful or not, I realize my back is against the wall. I have allowed a stranger not only into our lives but into our home. A stranger who I know little about. It doesn’t make me feel any better that he seems to like being a closed book. That’s the thing about mysteries—you never really think you’re going to find yourself in one. But then you do.
Chapter Sixteen
Gun to my head, I don’t mean to be drunk when I visit the school. Really and truly I don’t. It was Liam’s idea to go to the Italian restaurant for lunch. It was mine to order drinks.
Maybe I’ve had one too many. Maybe I’m just tired. Whatever the case, for the first time in my life, I think I’m about to get on a stage and tell the absolute truth.
Stepping up to the podium I adjust the mic to my liking, causing it to make a painful screech. My hands shake, making it worse, only it’s not nerves. It’s about three bottles of Negroni and a salad.
“Good afternoon,” I say forcefully. My voice booms throughout the auditorium, echoing off the walls. I pull away from the mic and tap it twice. I don’t know why, other than it just feels like the right thing to do.
The tapping causes a shrill sound to explode from the speakers. Whispers grow among the audience. I clear my throat and tap the mic once more. This time, everyone grows quiet. “They want me to impart wisdom on you. Well, the first thing you should know is most wisdom is bullshit—which leads me to my second point. You should question everything. That thing that you take for granted that you’re right about—question everything.”
Shifting from one foot to the other and back, my eyes scan the audience. “It’s just amazing to me the things the 25-year-old version of me thought—or the 45-year-old version of me thought—and I think understanding that is key. We’re not very good at thinking about the things that we might be wrong about today. We’re really good at knowing the ways we were wrong before. Lots of adults, we’re extremely good at telling stories of how we fucked up before— five years ago or ten years ago, ‘you should have seen me then!’—but not many of us are good about talking about today. I think that’s a blind spot most people have in life, people in general. If we can apply that mindset, and say ‘I was so wrong about that five years ago; I couldn’t have been more wrong about that, and I know that now’… well, I think that we should apply that to the next five years, and the next ten years, and say there’s a lot of shit I’m going to look back on five years from now and say ‘God, I did not know what I was talking about.’?”
I know my words slur, and I know I’m half-leaning on the podium as though it’s an old friend propping me up. I’m a little shocked that no one gets up to stop me. But they don’t. The majority of the people in the bleachers, both teachers and students alike, stare with mouths slightly open. Some of the kids are punching at their phones, but not many. Most are glued to the train wreck in front of them.
“Basically, ladies and gents…what I’m getting at is, there’s a saying I’ve always liked: strong opinions loosely held. We should be passionate about what we’re talking about—but we should leave room for questioning. You see, when you get to be a man of my age, you spend a lot of time thinking about the past, mulling over your younger days, because God knows things look better in the filtered haze of nostalgia. I like to think it’s the bargainin
g part of the grief process. Grief, because you’ve accepted that you’re staring at the best years of your life in the rearview mirror. I realize it’s not popular thinking to tell you any of this. But the brutal truth is, we’re all going to die. Some of us are closer to ‘game over’ than others. Few of us know how close. Terminal illness aside, age is one of the few predictors we have. So don’t squander your youth thinking there’s nothing left to learn. There’s a lot to learn about life yet. You don’t know a fraction of the things you think you do. Not for sure anyway.”
I take a step forward and then back, clear my throat and go on. “There are five things you should know about writing. One: never be afraid to write about something that has had every last word written about it. It’s not your something until you write about it. Two: there is nothing more interesting than the truth. Three: start with your interests. Chances are you aren’t the only person on the planet with a certain palate. Four: your weaknesses are your strengths. Five: approach situations in which you feel out of your depth with sincere curiosity. Those are the handful of things I know to be true about this vocation. But there’s one last thing, and perhaps the most important—activity does not make a story. Observation is what makes a story. How many people do you know who travel all the time but have nothing to say? Hell, I know people who went on vacation last week. They have nothing interesting to say about it. Don’t be boring. Pay attention. Stories are everywhere just waiting to be found. And finally, living is making peace with the fact that you are very likely going to be the villain in someone else’s story, even if you believed you were doing the right things. One of the most surprising things about life is the realization that you don’t get to tell other people how to narrate their experience.”
When it’s time for questions, most of what is asked is par for the course. That is until one jokester stands up. “My dad says you’re a hack.”
“Name and address please.”
The poor kid, not expecting that answer, rattles off his personal information. Never underestimate people’s capacity for stupidity. I should have added that to my speech.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say with a tsk-ing sound. “I could be a serial killer. God knows, I’ve written enough of them.”
The boy sort of chuckles and looks around the auditorium, proud as punch. He got a reaction out of the old guy. “Relax, kid. I’m only kidding. But tell your dad when he writes a novel—or eighteen—then we can talk.”
Looking out into the audience, I see that Liam and the girl are there. She has a huge grin on her face. He does not look quite so happy.
Chapter Seventeen
‘The Book Doctor’
Journal Entry
I know you shouldn’t kill kids. But bear with me here— kids can be every bit as terrible as adults. Worse in fact, because life hasn’t had much of a shot at hardening them. Plus, insufferable adults were once children. One has to draw the line somewhere. It’s really hard to be perfect all the time, and for me, well, it’s a little bit like chocolate cake. If you love chocolate cake, that is. If you crave it.
I really do.
Just like cake, when I find a kid that’s worth killing, it’s bliss. And I found one there that day in the auditorium. The truth is, I’d come up with a special way to kill a person, a way that I hadn’t tried before, but one that I was almost certain I could get away with.
After all, how am I supposed to write it if I don’t live it? Writing is about experimenting. You experiment, experiment, experiment. Until you get it right. Until you find out what works. Murder is no different.
So I did what I did. Hopped online. Made an account posing as a pretty girl. Dug up a stock photo. Flirted a bit. Sent a few photos of someone else naked, and asked if he wanted to meet up. Of course he did.
Even though, honestly, it wasn’t my best plan. I had a lot on my plate with work and all, so I figured, what the hell? It couldn’t hurt to give it a go and see if he bites.
As it turns out, the idea of pussy is very attractive at that age. At any age, really. Although, before you get some sense knocked into you, well—you’ll do just about anything. Especially if your IQ is a touch below average and you didn’t exactly luck out in the looks department either.
The internet is a treasure trove. You can be anyone, say anything, buy anything. I didn’t know exactly where to go to get what I was after, but with the few clicks of a mouse, there they were, something I didn’t even know about until a few weeks ago: murder hornets.
Now, I’ve seen a lot of things. But I’ve never seen a person die by being stung to death. What an opportunity.
