Read Online Victims by Collin Wilcox - Free Book Online Page B

what her father said he had seen and heard. Next I described Guest’s movements in the minutes before and after the murder. Finally, I paraphrased Kramer’s testimony. As I talked, she kept her eyes fixed on my face. But, once again, her expression revealed nothing: no anxiety, no horror, no calculation. Nothing. She simply listened.
    When I finished she sat silently for a moment, her eyes once more slipping vaguely away from mine. Then she began speaking in a dull, lifeless voice. It was a voice without hope, as empty as her eyes. The earlier assertiveness, the finishing school willfulness seemed suddenly to desert her, leaving her confused, defenseless.
    “I never thought anything like this could happen—nothing like murder. It—it all seems like a cheap movie, one of those movies without a very convincing plot. I mean—” Her gaze wandered back to meet mine briefly, then wandered off again. “I mean, it doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
    I decided not to answer. She was obviously on the point of rambling off into a typical alcoholic’s maudlin meandering. And experience had taught me that, if I listened well enough and long enough, and didn’t interrupt, I might eventually learn more than I could if I questioned her directly.
    Now her face revealed some small trace of expression as her lips twisted into a kind of wan, exhausted smile. “I always knew, I suppose, that it would end badly. My life, I mean. Or, at least, I always suspected it—during those times, that is, when I allowed myself to speculate on the future. Which isn’t often, as you might imagine. I mean, I learned long ago how dangerous it is, to think about what’s happening to you—and especially, what could happen to you.” She broke off, suddenly looking at me directly. “You must know what I mean. You have a—a bruised look, like you’ve seen too much of what’s going on inside your head—or your life, or whatever.” She shook her head, then looked away again. “People think they can control their own destinies. They think that if they’re good enough, or lucky enough, or smart enough, they can change what’s going to happen to them. But they’re wrong, of course. They can’t. We’re all of us pre-programmed. So if we stop to think for a minute, we can predict what’ll happen. Except that nobody stops. Nobody thinks. It’s too painful to think. So we just go on hoping that, the next time, it’ll work out. Except that it never does. I knew when I married Gordon that it would never work out. If I’d taken one minute—sixty seconds—to think about it, I could’ve plotted the whole marriage, from beginning to end. But I didn’t, so I couldn’t. I thought that a baby would make a difference.” Her lips twisted in another wry, wan smile. “I fell into that old trap. Gordon wanted the child, you see. He’s Jewish, so he—” Suddenly she hiccupped. Then, as if the hiccup triggered a connected reaction, she reached for the mug and gulped down two noisy swallows. She put the mug down and sat looking at it for a moment. Then she said, “There’s booze in that cup.” She raised her eyes to mine, saying, “You know that, don’t you? I can see it in those loser’s eyes of yours. You know.”
    As we looked at each other, a message was exchanged. It was a mute confession, a silent recognition that, yes, we shared a secret, she and I. We would never talk about it, never define it. But we knew that the secret we shared—and the secret behind the secret—would control our lives forever. Suddenly I realized that, incredibly, my wayward thoughts had taken me back to the kitchen of my parents’ house. I’d just come home from high school, from freshman football practice. I’d found my mother sitting at the kitchen table, crying. She’d just returned home from work, just found my father’s note, lying on the table. He was leaving us, he said. He was sorry.
    “Did you know that your husband intended to try and take John