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A little spooky.
It’s probably just because we’re over on this abandoned part of the beach in the dark and he’s showing me an obituary. Even for Jet, that’s extremely weird.
“I wanted something a bit more fitting to his crime, a bit more draconian, but I couldn’t make itlooklike a murder. I know my dad or brother would have inflicted physical injury and left evidence behind like testosterone-driven idiots,” he says with a roll of his eyes, “but my way was smarter. Nobody murders anybody with necrotizing fasciitis.”
He says it like it’s an academic joke I should get and join in laughing at. Even on a normal day, I usually don’t get those, but it certainly goes over my head right now. My jaw is practically on the beach. “What…?”
“It’s not reliable enough,” he explains, realizing he’s talking to a person of only average intelligence and below average scientific expertise. “It’s difficult to deliberately give someone, and it doesn’t always kill a person even if they do get infected. I had back-up plans, of course, but it was my first choice of death for him—well, of the safe ones, anyway. I would’ve preferred something more gruesome, perhaps spreading peanut butter around his flaccid dick and then locking him in a trunk full of hungry rats. I had to play it safe, though. Obviously, that would be investigated as foul play. No one accidentally dips their dick in peanut butter and feeds it to rodents.”
Is he… saying what…?
I mean, yes, he’s definitely saying that…
Is he joking? This is an insane and strangely detailed joke…
“It wasn’t even hard, honestly. I had to drug him so he’d be out when I broke into his house—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “Anyway, you probably don’t care to hear the gory details. Do you?”
Feeling the blood drain from my face, I shake my head, unable to muster a single syllable.
He nods like that’s what he figured. “Suffice it to say, I got the job done. I did that one months ago. I wanted to tell you right away so you’d know he wasn’t out there anymore, but I decided to wait. I wanted to get you the set, and that would have ruined the surprise.”
“The… set?”
He holds up the other clipping that I dropped.
A sick feeling rocks my stomach.
Oh no. Jet, what did you do?
I grab the newspaper clipping with shaky hands and unfold it to see my mother’s picture. I feel a bit faint as I start to read it.
Tracey Marie Landers, 36, passed away in her home the evening of May 27…
Oh. My. God.
I want to look up at him, but I’m a little afraid to.
Logically, I tell myself this is the same guy who bought me a cat purse to make me smile and I definitely shouldn’t be worried, but hedidhaul me pretty far away from the restaurant to give me this “gift.”
Jet’s a smart guy. It’s not impossible that was so no one would hear me scream if I reacted poorly.
I feel crazy even thinking that, but how can I not when he’s standing here telling me he killed two people?
Clearly, there is alotI don’t know about Jet Granville.
Chills dance down my spine. I force myself to meet his gaze, fearful of what I might see there.
He doesn’t look any different, really. If he looks scary, it’s only because I’m noticing things I haven’t before. But overall, he looks pleasant, like a proud puppy who has just brought a dead cat to its owner and is awaiting appreciative pets and to be told what a good boy he is for bringing such a nice gift.
I swallow.
I force my lips up to form a ghost of a smile. “You… did this? For me?”
He nods. “I went more traditional with her. She was going through a lot of heroin after Larry died, so when I gave her a hot shot, it just looked like a run-of-the-mill OD.”
I can picture that. Mom didn’t always do hard drugs, but she often turned to them after a breakup.
When I was 11, I came home from school one day and found her on the couch. She should have been at work so I was confused at first, but when I walked over to her, she was unresponsive. I had to call 911, and I was scared to death waiting for them to get there, then watching them load her on a stretcher and race her out to an ambulance.
