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Authors: Laura Reese
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of some satisfaction.
But Ian just shook his head, a look of pain on his face. “It doesn’t help to know who murdered her,” he said, and he put his arms around me.
From that common element—violent death—Ian and I established a rapport. He understood me as no one else could; he comforted me, even helped with the funeral arrangements and memorial service.
When Franny was murdered, something inside me closed up. Her death, so senseless and violent, affected me more profoundly than even my brother’s or parents’ deaths. Even now, I find it unbearable. Ian—gentle, staid, levelheaded Ian—has been a great help to me, and the progression of our relationship has been slow and steady. When I was considering a leave of absence from the Bee, he agreed it might be a good idea. He didn’t want me to move to Davis, but when I did he was supportive. He helped me move, and he never complains about the distance between our homes. We see each other several times a week, and being with Ian is comfortable. He’s compassionate and bright and even-tempered. I find, since Franny died, my attitude toward men has changed. I know she thought I was frivolous with my boyfriends, and maybe I was. But with Ian, it’s different. I really care about him, and maybe it will lead to something more.
He stayed over last night, and he’s in the bathroom now, shaving. I’m reading the newspaper, clipping articles that depict violent acts in Sacramento. Two teenagers were wounded in Land Park in a drive-by shooting. In Franklin Villa a man was pulled from his home and beaten with a baseball bat. A woman, shot three times, was found dead on 14th Avenue, a pile of clothes near her nude body. I’ve begun a collection of articles about violence, death, destruction. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with them—write an article perhaps, on the growing tide of violence, and submit it to the Bee.
Ian comes up behind me and puts his arms around my neck. He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. He smells good, of shaving lotion and Old Spice, and his lips are as soft and smooth as blossoming petals. Looking at him, with his square face and crooked nose that had once been broken, you wouldn’t think his lips would be so soft. He’s a few inches taller, and a few years younger, than I, and even now while he’s dressed in a dark suit to meet with a legislator, he has an unsophisticated, farm-boyish look about him, his body beefy and strong, his fingers blunt. Even his blond hair is the flaxen color of silky tassels on an ear of corn. He’s a good-hearted man, frank and simple. I used to think he was a trifle dull, but, since Franny died, I’ve come to admire his steadfast manner.
The only area in which he is not supportive is where it concerns M. Several months ago, when I told him I was following M., Ian blew up at me in a rare display of anger.
“Why are you doing this?” he said, pacing the room, agitated, his face flushed. “Why can’t you just leave the man alone?”
“Because he killed my sister.”
Ian was clenching his fists, his knuckles white. “Then let the police do their job. Stay away from him.”
I couldn’t understand why he was saying this—he should be helping me to find Franny’s killer, not deterring me. “I can’t,” I said.
He left the house, slamming the door behind him. I don’t know why he reacted so vehemently, but I suspect he was jealous of the time I was devoting to M. Since then, I don’t mention his name. Ian has no idea what he looks like, and has no inclination to find out. He doesn’t know I still follow M. around town, or that I’m writing Franny’s story. He doesn’t know I met M. yesterday at Fluffy’s, and he definitely doesn’t know about my date with him tonight.
I’m jittery all afternoon. I don’t like deceiving Ian, but I know he wouldn’t approve of my plan for M. I think of how M. committed the perfect murder. As soon as the police read Franny’s diary, they took
But Ian just shook his head, a look of pain on his face. “It doesn’t help to know who murdered her,” he said, and he put his arms around me.
From that common element—violent death—Ian and I established a rapport. He understood me as no one else could; he comforted me, even helped with the funeral arrangements and memorial service.
When Franny was murdered, something inside me closed up. Her death, so senseless and violent, affected me more profoundly than even my brother’s or parents’ deaths. Even now, I find it unbearable. Ian—gentle, staid, levelheaded Ian—has been a great help to me, and the progression of our relationship has been slow and steady. When I was considering a leave of absence from the Bee, he agreed it might be a good idea. He didn’t want me to move to Davis, but when I did he was supportive. He helped me move, and he never complains about the distance between our homes. We see each other several times a week, and being with Ian is comfortable. He’s compassionate and bright and even-tempered. I find, since Franny died, my attitude toward men has changed. I know she thought I was frivolous with my boyfriends, and maybe I was. But with Ian, it’s different. I really care about him, and maybe it will lead to something more.
He stayed over last night, and he’s in the bathroom now, shaving. I’m reading the newspaper, clipping articles that depict violent acts in Sacramento. Two teenagers were wounded in Land Park in a drive-by shooting. In Franklin Villa a man was pulled from his home and beaten with a baseball bat. A woman, shot three times, was found dead on 14th Avenue, a pile of clothes near her nude body. I’ve begun a collection of articles about violence, death, destruction. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with them—write an article perhaps, on the growing tide of violence, and submit it to the Bee.
Ian comes up behind me and puts his arms around my neck. He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. He smells good, of shaving lotion and Old Spice, and his lips are as soft and smooth as blossoming petals. Looking at him, with his square face and crooked nose that had once been broken, you wouldn’t think his lips would be so soft. He’s a few inches taller, and a few years younger, than I, and even now while he’s dressed in a dark suit to meet with a legislator, he has an unsophisticated, farm-boyish look about him, his body beefy and strong, his fingers blunt. Even his blond hair is the flaxen color of silky tassels on an ear of corn. He’s a good-hearted man, frank and simple. I used to think he was a trifle dull, but, since Franny died, I’ve come to admire his steadfast manner.
The only area in which he is not supportive is where it concerns M. Several months ago, when I told him I was following M., Ian blew up at me in a rare display of anger.
“Why are you doing this?” he said, pacing the room, agitated, his face flushed. “Why can’t you just leave the man alone?”
“Because he killed my sister.”
Ian was clenching his fists, his knuckles white. “Then let the police do their job. Stay away from him.”
I couldn’t understand why he was saying this—he should be helping me to find Franny’s killer, not deterring me. “I can’t,” I said.
He left the house, slamming the door behind him. I don’t know why he reacted so vehemently, but I suspect he was jealous of the time I was devoting to M. Since then, I don’t mention his name. Ian has no idea what he looks like, and has no inclination to find out. He doesn’t know I still follow M. around town, or that I’m writing Franny’s story. He doesn’t know I met M. yesterday at Fluffy’s, and he definitely doesn’t know about my date with him tonight.
I’m jittery all afternoon. I don’t like deceiving Ian, but I know he wouldn’t approve of my plan for M. I think of how M. committed the perfect murder. As soon as the police read Franny’s diary, they took
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