Dear Killer (25 page)

And I can’t lie any longer.

I can’t, I just can’t.

No. I can. No. I can’t do this, I can’t, I can, I’m fine, no I’m not—I realize that I am shaking, I realize that I am angry and sad and weak and strong and I am a dichotomy of a human being and I am so far from whole and I can’t think any longer and I feel like I am splintering into pieces—

And suddenly, like a snapping cord, I perceive everything with clear and utter rationality, without feeling. I see my two choices, the street signs of the two roads laid out before me. And I know that I must choose, and that I will be defined forever in the choosing.

One. I kill Alex. I run home and jump into the car I know my mother is already packing our bags into, and I take the ferry to France. I try to escape for a while longer, flee the country with my mother, while knowing that I have, by killing Alex, practically signed my own death sentence. One coincidental murder is unfortunate, two is an overly strange coincidence, but three is a pattern. I cannot hide forever, but I might be able to hide for a little while. They would hunt me down. I would have one more person’s blood on my hands without a letter. A friend’s blood, nonetheless. Some other police officer would catch me eventually and take the glory in Alex’s place.

Two. I acknowledge what Alex already knows, let him arrest me and, probably, arrest my mother as well, in time. My father, of course, would be questioned but found innocent by ignorance. I surrender. I save myself more pain. I take the easy way out.

To kill or not to kill, that is the question. Either way, I lose.

The part of me that is Kit leans toward option two. I am unsteady on my feet.

But then Diana is there, raging toward option one, and I am suddenly feral.

I leap toward Alex. He is caught off-guard. I jam my shoulder into his sternum and knock him onto the pavement; he gasps as he hits the ground. And then I am upon him. I kneel halfway on his chest, swing my arm back so my hand brushes my forehead like Scarlett O’Hara—

But he yells and thrashes against me and flips me off him. I hit my back against the bench. I cry out and taste blood as it rises up in my mouth. Alex stands again and pulls a gun out from beneath his coat, eyes frantic; I scream and throw myself toward his calves, knocking him to the ground again.

I grasp for the gun, but he holds it away from me, trying to get a good grip. And suddenly my hand is clasped over his, and we are both holding it.

“Let
go!
” he yells, but I don’t listen.

I dig my nails into his hand and he pulls the trigger. The sound deafens me, but the bullet whizzes through empty air, harmless. I grip his hand firmly in mine and bash it against the ground, making him let go of the gun; the weapon skitters away over the pavement to a place far beyond our reach.

I claw at his skin, raking bloody gashes along his collar-bone.

“How could you do it, Kit?” he cries out, and the sound echoes through me—
how how how how how?

For a moment, I pin him to the ground, my knee grating against his sternum and my hands grinding his wrists against the pavement. I hover over his face, our noses almost touching, bleeding from my mouth.

“I’m not Kit,” I hiss, “I’m Diana.”

And he doesn’t understand.

He struggles against me. I fight like my life is ending. We crash across the pavement, bruising ourselves, making ourselves bleed. He breaks my cheekbone. I break his arm. We paint the ground red. Neither of us feels any pain.

As the battle goes on, the eventual winner becomes clear. Every time we pause, I always have the advantage. He has brute strength, but I have years of skill and practice he can never hope to match. Every time we stop, I am hanging over him, or pinning him against something. He gradually tires, but strength still runs through me like an ocean current.

And eventually he just stops fighting.

We are settled against the base of the tall oak, crusted in blood and snow. I straddle his chest; I don’t even touch his hands. He is weak and useless, and has no more strength to fight. So I just look down at him, and he cries at me.

Because he
is
crying. Slow, silent tears drift down his bloodied cheeks. Kit would understand those tears. But I’m not Kit. I’m Diana, and forever will be.

“How could you do this to me?” he sobs. “How could you just—just trick me, use me, and now—now, you’re going to kill me, aren’t you? I’ll just become another piece in your game? How cold can you be? You can’t get away with this again. You’ll be caught this time. You know it too, don’t you? The neighbors heard the gunshot. Look, all the lights are on. The police are coming here right now. They’ll be here in a few minutes. There’s nowhere to run.”

Yes, they are coming for me. But Alex underestimates my prowess. If I end things, kill him quickly and run home now, my mother and I can still make it to the ferry before it leaves.

Maybe.

Time passes quickly. It’s getting late. Things are becoming less certain, but maybe is still better than nothing. My mother is waiting for me, I know, standing anxiously with her arms crossed on the sidewalk, breath fogging the air. She won’t leave without me, but if she waits too long, it may be too late. I have to return to her—I have to go home. I owe her that much.

I don’t reply. I just stare into Alex’s eyes. He stares back and shivers. The snow falls harder. I could kill him so easily, with a fist to the temple or a well-aimed punch to the nose, sending shards of his nasal bone up into his brain.

“I trusted you,” he tells me. But no, he’s wrong, he trusted Kit, and I am Diana.

And then for a flashing moment, I remember who he is. Alex. My Alex. Alex, so pure, so naive, so clever about the strangest things—Alex, who held me in his arms after Michael’s murder, beautiful Alex, Alex who I have so terribly betrayed—Alex who I wanted, and even now, despite everything, in this terrible moment, continue to want—and it would be the easiest thing, wouldn’t it, to lean toward him, to run my hands through his hair, to press my lips to his?

But no, I remind myself, looking into his eyes, seeing the way he has shattered, it’s not easy. It’s nowhere near easy. With things as they are, it’s impossible.

What a pity it is that we’ve lived the lives we’ve lived.

And I remember the others, in a blinding blur. Henry Morrison, stupid Louisa, Dr. Marcell, Michael, Michael’s mother, Maggie, Cherry Rose, my absent father, Maggie again, my halfway-defeated mother—who I realize I might never see again, at least not in the way it counts, depending on when the police get here. Escape is not guaranteed anymore, even if Alex dies.

Faces like ghosts. Faces I try to remember. Faces I try to anchor myself with. Faces I am forgetting, faces that are fading from me even as I try to cling to them.

Sitting atop Alex’s chest, I bury my head in my hands and begin to cry.

I don’t want to be Diana. I want to be Kit. I want the past.

I hear the far-off sound of sirens.

“Just kill me if you’re going to do it. Get it over with,” Alex pleads brokenheartedly, and he breaks my heart too. He will never forgive me. I can never forgive myself. There is no escape for me now, I know. Everything is over. I had my run. I was a murderer, a beautiful one, but I lived in a house of cards all my life—and now it’s all coming back to punish me, and there is no escape.

I don’t know if I’m Kit or Diana anymore. I hate Diana, but I don’t know for sure if that’s self-loathing.

I am standing at a fork in the road. Around me is a vast, desolate desert. There is a signpost, but the signs are blank, and as far as the eye can see, both roads look exactly the same.

I hold my hands out to Alex.

“Arrest me,” I tell him. “I’m the Perfect Killer.”

Acknowledgments

F
irst of all, I would like to thank all the wonderful (my mom wanted me to use the word “incandescent” here) members of my family and extended family, who have supported me throughout this entire process; my parents’ help was absolutely invaluable, and without them I’m pretty sure I would have had a heart attack or spontaneously combusted trying to manage everything. My brother and sister, too, were helpful in their own way. I’d like to thank them for encouraging me to get out of the house more and telling me that I need to get my driver’s license instead of writing so much. (But seriously, they’re great siblings.)

Another big thank-you goes out to the fabulous Alice Martell, who is tireless, enthusiastic, determined, and the best guide a teenage girl could ask for. I’d also like to say thank you to everyone at Katherine Tegen Books, especially Katherine herself, who is a wonderful person and editor, and, again, a great guide.

Thank you to anyone who has ever read this book in any form on its way to publication—this book would not have become what it is without your input.

Lastly, a very special thank-you goes to Bruce Vinokour, to whom I am completely indebted. Without him I would not be where I am today.

About the Author

Katherine Ewell
wrote
Dear Killer
when she was seventeen years old. She was one of fifty finalists out of 5,000 entries in the 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest and has attended the invitational Iowa Young Writers’ Studio. In addition, she has the distinction of being named a California Arts Scholar and has been awarded the California Governor’s Medallion for artistically talented youth.
Dear Killer
is her first novel. You can visit her online at www.katherineewell.blogspot.com.

Visit
www.AuthorTracker.com
for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

Credits

Cover art © 2014 by Andrew Davis / Trevillion Images

Cover design by Tom Forget

Back Ad