blanket. “Sometimes I think about moving to one of those islands where you can live really cheaply. You know the ones I’m talking about? Just move there and lounge around in a hammock all day. Never wear shoes. Walk along the beach. Watch the sun come up and watch the sun go down.”
“That sounds nice.” She replaced a book and pulled out another. Tremain read a lot of philosophy. And a lot of self-help books. But there were also books about root doctors. Her hand paused, then she pulled out a familiar one, written about her father. “You’d get bored though. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Depends.”
She glanced over her shoulder to see him lifting one of the pillows with two fingers before tossing it aside. “Depends on what?”
“Who was with me.”
“You wouldn’t be alone? I always imagine myself alone on that beach.”
“Sometimes I’m alone, but not always.”
She felt a little twinge of jealousy even though she knew she had no claim on him. But thinking of him with someone . . . It was something she wasn’t really prepared for.
Turning the pages of the book, she said, “If I talked to anybody, it would be you.” She’d seen the paperback before. She even owned a copy, although she kept it hidden in a drawer.
“I saw your report,” David said. “It pretty much glosses over the three days you were here. I understand not wanting people to know. Particularly not wanting people in the department to know. But if you ever do want to talk about it . . . ”
If he only knew how many times she’d thought about telling him what had happened, and how many times she’d thought about how she never, ever, ever wanted him to know. Or anybody to know. That was the only way she could get past it. If she told him, if he knew, then she’d see her humiliation reflected back at her every time she looked at him. If no one knew, she could push it away, cover it up.
Sometimes in her life, in dealing with her parents or other people who were simply acting in ways they shouldn’t, she would briefly consider pretending. Pretending they were a normal family. And pretending that her father had been a good father, and her mother had been a good mother. And she would briefly put that pretending into motion, as if by the very pretense the pretending would eat into her life and suddenly the pretending would become real. It was the same self-delusion killers sometimes used. Where they twisted the plot in their heads, where they became the heroes of their own stories. Because the bad people were almost always the heroes of their own stories. How could it be otherwise? Most bad people didn’t think of themselves as bad, no matter what Strata Luna said. Evil doesn’t need a reason to exist .
That was true, but evil didn’t recognize evil. Killers normally killed for two reasons. One was for personal gain, the other was for pleasure or fantasy. And sometimes those two things combined. When that happened, the killer became harder to predict.
And the pretense? Did the whole world pretend? Did that make up most relationships, whether family or lovers? How much of it was people simply going through perceptions of what life should be like? And when those societal impressions were dropped? What was left? Killers? Murderers? Where was the line? And how real was that line? That artificial line? Fabricated morals?
There were days when her brain took this weird turn, and for a brief second the criminals made sense. They made sense. Like when you stare at the grass and suddenly you see this whole world down there that you couldn’t see before. Houses and streets and families. If you made your eyes go funny, if you could somehow lift the veil, then this other code would make sense. And that scared her. What separated her from them? Just some synapses firing a certain way?
“Did he ever talk to you about root work?” David asked. “I mean, considering your background . . . ”
“He asked me
“That sounds nice.” She replaced a book and pulled out another. Tremain read a lot of philosophy. And a lot of self-help books. But there were also books about root doctors. Her hand paused, then she pulled out a familiar one, written about her father. “You’d get bored though. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Depends.”
She glanced over her shoulder to see him lifting one of the pillows with two fingers before tossing it aside. “Depends on what?”
“Who was with me.”
“You wouldn’t be alone? I always imagine myself alone on that beach.”
“Sometimes I’m alone, but not always.”
She felt a little twinge of jealousy even though she knew she had no claim on him. But thinking of him with someone . . . It was something she wasn’t really prepared for.
Turning the pages of the book, she said, “If I talked to anybody, it would be you.” She’d seen the paperback before. She even owned a copy, although she kept it hidden in a drawer.
“I saw your report,” David said. “It pretty much glosses over the three days you were here. I understand not wanting people to know. Particularly not wanting people in the department to know. But if you ever do want to talk about it . . . ”
If he only knew how many times she’d thought about telling him what had happened, and how many times she’d thought about how she never, ever, ever wanted him to know. Or anybody to know. That was the only way she could get past it. If she told him, if he knew, then she’d see her humiliation reflected back at her every time she looked at him. If no one knew, she could push it away, cover it up.
Sometimes in her life, in dealing with her parents or other people who were simply acting in ways they shouldn’t, she would briefly consider pretending. Pretending they were a normal family. And pretending that her father had been a good father, and her mother had been a good mother. And she would briefly put that pretending into motion, as if by the very pretense the pretending would eat into her life and suddenly the pretending would become real. It was the same self-delusion killers sometimes used. Where they twisted the plot in their heads, where they became the heroes of their own stories. Because the bad people were almost always the heroes of their own stories. How could it be otherwise? Most bad people didn’t think of themselves as bad, no matter what Strata Luna said. Evil doesn’t need a reason to exist .
That was true, but evil didn’t recognize evil. Killers normally killed for two reasons. One was for personal gain, the other was for pleasure or fantasy. And sometimes those two things combined. When that happened, the killer became harder to predict.
And the pretense? Did the whole world pretend? Did that make up most relationships, whether family or lovers? How much of it was people simply going through perceptions of what life should be like? And when those societal impressions were dropped? What was left? Killers? Murderers? Where was the line? And how real was that line? That artificial line? Fabricated morals?
There were days when her brain took this weird turn, and for a brief second the criminals made sense. They made sense. Like when you stare at the grass and suddenly you see this whole world down there that you couldn’t see before. Houses and streets and families. If you made your eyes go funny, if you could somehow lift the veil, then this other code would make sense. And that scared her. What separated her from them? Just some synapses firing a certain way?
“Did he ever talk to you about root work?” David asked. “I mean, considering your background . . . ”
“He asked me
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