Dear Killer (5 page)

I smiled and turned away. I walked away from him without another word, sauntering down the sidewalk. Once I was about ten feet away, I laughed and looked back over my shoulder toward him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Alex,” I called.

“Yeah,” he agreed very slowly, with the hint of a smile; of course he was wondering,
Why tomorrow?
but to be honest I didn’t even know why I had said that myself. Maybe it was a promise. Maybe I was assuring him, yes, we would be friends, and we would see each other soon, and he shouldn’t doubt me.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he replied.

Chapter 5

I
stood in front of 28 Lark Place, in Chelsea.

The street was quiet, and everyone’s curtains were drawn. It was late. This was a neighborhood with many children, and the families were sleeping. There weren’t any surveillance cameras around to watch me—this place was too far from the city center for that. This would be an easier murder than most—but it had to be quiet.

It was 11:52, eleven degrees Celsius. Cool, for late summer. I had to wear a jacket. Black, of course, so the stains wouldn’t show. My gloved hands were shoved deep down in my pockets.

It was a clean-looking house, white with blue shutters. A pot of blooming purple petunias was set on each of the three steps leading up to the front door. I stood across the street in the shade of a small thorny tree, blending into the shadows. I wore a scarf to cover most of my face and a knit black hat to cover my hair, lest anyone see me and try to identify me later. But I didn’t think they would see me. I was too quiet, too easy to pass over, and too good at what I did.

I walked across the street, hands in my pockets, and rang the doorbell.

The simple way in was always the best. People might remember me if I was looking through the window, trying to lift the shutter, for example. If they glimpsed me that way, I wouldn’t be forgotten. And there was no way to get into the house except through the front. No one suspected or even remembered someone who just waltzed up to the front door and rang the doorbell like they were being expected.

For a moment there was silence, and darkness. I rang again.

A light went on inside.

I heard footsteps down stairs and then on flat wooden floor—and the door swung open to reveal Lily Kensington in a rose-pink bathrobe, tired-eyed and yawning. She was a pretty thing, much taller than me, with black curly hair and deep hazel eyes like wood and water.

“Lily Kensington.” I smiled benignly. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

She looked at me, confused.

“What?”

“After all this time, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“I think you have the wrong person.”

“You are Lily Kensington, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

I smiled wider.

“Then I don’t have the wrong person.”

She paused, searching my face for something, looking completely baffled.

“Who
are
you?”

“My name is Diana,” I said. It was the name I always gave to my victims, if they asked. I liked that name. I had taken it from Roman mythology a long time ago. Diana was the goddess of the hunt, wild animals, and the moon, and it had seemed appropriate—also, I just liked the sound of it.
Diana.

“Who?”

“Diana. Didn’t . . . didn’t your fiancé tell you about me?”

Her eyes widened a bit.

“My fiancé?”

“Yes. I’m a friend of his. I’ve heard so much about you. He said he thought you’d be home now. I’m sorry the visit is so late.”

“Yeah.”

I looked around, biting my lip. I needed to get in. Usually by this point in the conversation I was already inside. People didn’t usually like standing in cold doorways at night and didn’t usually even feel uncomfortable about asking a slim little teenage girl like me inside. She was tough. Now, what should I do?

“Actually, I have to talk to you about something,” I murmured.

“Yeah, well, whatever you want to talk to me about, we can talk right here,” she said, leaning against the doorway imposingly, making it clear that she was taller and stronger than me. Her expression was distinctly unfriendly.

“It’s . . . well . . . I don’t want to,” I said childishly, petulantly. She looked at me with a skeptical expression.

“Yeah, well, that’s too bad, isn’t it?”

This was taking too long. Far too long. Long conversations were suspicious, and suspicion was not something I wanted to gather.

“I’m pregnant with your fiancé’s baby,” I snapped. Crude, but I imagined it would be effective.

It did the trick.

She gaped. She looked shocked, stunned, betrayed, and stepped away from the door just long enough for me to sneak inside and close the door behind me. With a click, it settled into the doorframe. She reached a hand out and weakly put it on my shoulder.

“You’re lying,” she whispered hopefully. I shook my head and led her slowly into the next room, facing her as I walked backward.

“I’m not lying,” I said, feigning shame. Inside, I was darkly satisfied. This room was perfect. Thick, dark curtains so no one could see shadows through the window. A large space in the middle of the carpet between the sofa and the TV.

She collapsed down on her caramel leather sofa and put her head in her hands. She breathed deeply. In, out, in, out. I hoped she was savoring those breaths.

I stood by the flat-screen hung high on the wall and prepared myself. She was small, low to the ground, as she sat hunched with her head in her hands, staring at the floor.

I liked this part. I left things to chance most of the time. It might be foolish, but I was well trained and well practiced in my art. I knew which ways of killing were the most effective and which made the least noise.

I remembered the rules my mother had taught me over dinner, making me recite them night after night until I not only remembered them, but lived them, and had them printed into my very existence. One—nothing is right, nothing is wrong. Two—be careful. Three—fight using your legs whenever possible, because they’re the strongest part of your body. Your arms are the weakest. Four—hit to kill. Don’t waste time. The first blow should be the last, if at all possible. Five—the letters are the law.

And I remembered the breathless heat of many days, one after the other after the other, sparring, sweating, bruising, learning to kill by hand. . . .

Other, more silent and sure ways of killing, like poisons or knives, left a paper trail or permanent evidence. I might leave a lot to chance by killing with bare hands, but at least I would make myself untraceable.

“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. She leaned down to hug her knees, shuddering, her head hanging limply toward the floor.

“But—is that why he wanted to leave? You? Why does he want to leave, he can’t leave—”

She started to move away from her knees to look up at me; she wanted to look me in the eyes. But this was already taking too long.

I stepped forward and swung my knee upward into her nose before she had a chance to see my face. She really was a pretty thing. All elegance and sharp beauty.

I heard and felt the bone splinter against my lower thigh. She opened her mouth to scream, but I kept driving upward with my leg and the shattered bone plunged upward into her brain and she was dead.

She fell forward onto the black carpet, her pink fluffy bathrobe making her look like some sort of grotesque flower. Quick and silent and simple. I crouched down and turned her over. Wet blood, the color of cherry cough medicine, dripped from her mutilated face. Her eyes were open. I left them that way and made sure not to get any blood on myself. Bloodstains were hard to wash out, and I already had one on my knee. I would have to get rid of these jeans.

Carefully, making sure not to touch anything else, I slid one hand out of my glove and checked her pulse and breathing. Both were gone. I slid my hand back into the glove, pulled a damp sponge out of my coat pocket, and carefully scrubbed away the print from her neck. I put the sponge back in my pocket.

I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the letter.

I stood up and looked down at her. Looked at her ruined face and bloodshot eyes and that pretty hair.

“Sorry,” I said coldly.

I dropped the letter on her chest and walked away as blood began to soak through the corners of the paper.

I thought about the clockwork of it all as I walked back out onto the street, the night air biting into my skin. The precision, the order. The fact that no one was there to tell me that I was wrong, or disgusting.

Do you remember what I said about not enjoying murder?

That was a lie.

Chapter 6

M
y father, as he did most days, had left the house before dawn. The sound of the front door opening and closing downstairs had woken me up; I was a light sleeper, and the door was loud. After he left, I couldn’t fall asleep again. I stared at the ceiling for an hour, dazed, unmoving, before my alarm rang to tell me I had to get up to go to school.

I slipped downstairs in a bathrobe and slippers at half past six; I needed something to drink. I found my mother sitting at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the railing. As I approached, she stood and turned to look at me.

“You’re up early,” I remarked, descending the last few stairs. Her blue eyes glistened softly in my direction, wide and watery.

“Am I?”

I raised my eyebrows slightly. She looked tired.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

She shrugged. “I guess not.”

“Nightmares again?”

“Yes.”

I felt sorry—I knew how bad the nightmares got sometimes, how upset they made her. She never told me much about those dreams, but I knew that they were rife with blood and terror and ghosts of the past.

“You’re all right?”

“Yes, of course.” She looked absently around the front hallway. “You were out late last night,” she remarked. She wanted to change the subject, and I would let her.

I walked past her into the kitchen. As I passed, I shrugged and said, “I killed.”

“Who was it?”

“Her name was Lily Kensington.”

“Why did she die?”

“Her boyfriend said she was blackmailing him. She seemed nice enough, though.”

I emerged from the kitchen with two glasses of orange juice. I took a sip from one and handed the other to my mother, who nodded a brief
thank-you
.

“Well, you never know with people.”

I shook my head and grinned drily. I thought about us in our gray-walled, elegant hallway, the two slender blondes on the edge of an expensive rug, pale-skinned and frail-looking, pausing beneath famous photographs, drinking orange juice from designer glasses.

“No, you never know,” I laughed.

She got the joke and laughed too. Softly, she sighed and smiled.

I nodded and returned her smile as tenderly as I could.

“You should go finish getting ready for school,” she said.

“Okay.”

I turned away from her wordlessly and went upstairs. She didn’t move. She was lost in thought. The morning wrapped her in a blanket of light.

“Hey, Maggie,” I said, leaning over her with a smile.

She looked up at me, morose.

“Hey.”

I frowned. “What is it?” I asked.

“What’s what?”

“Why do you look like someone just shot your puppy?”

“Nothing—nothing, just Michael being . . . Michael.”

I sat down on the table in front of her, resting my feet on a chair. We were in our painting classroom next to a row of easels, basking in midafternoon sunshine—it was the only class we had together. She wasn’t very good at it. Admittedly, neither was I, but her painting skills were almost beyond pathetic. The vase of flowers she had attempted to paint had ended up looking more like a bouquet of turquoise butterflies, which was oddly pretty, I supposed, but definitely not accurate.

School was over—the bell had just rung. Michael was in that class too. While I was putting away my paints, he had been talking to Maggie, and now he was gone.

“Ignore him.” I laughed spitefully, glancing at the door to the classroom. “He’s an arsehole.”

“He’s just . . . sharp,” she said, somehow defensive. Just the day before, she had called him a bastard. But that bitterness was suddenly gone, vanished. It was a bit frustrating.

“No. Trust me. He’s
definitely
an arsehole,” I said knowingly, and continued in a whisper, “He
hurt
you, didn’t he?”

She frowned again and stood, picking up her purse from the ground next to her chair.

“Maybe.” She smiled weakly.

“Maybe? How about definitely. Come on, be a bit more confident.”

“I don’t want to stir up trouble,” she said.

“Why ever not?” She didn’t reply to that. I shrugged and changed the subject. “So—I’m visiting a friend of mine now. Want to come?”

She looked around, as if something in the classroom would answer whatever question she had.

“Now?”

“Yeah, now. I’m walking over to where he works. He works for Scotland Yard, so he’s not suspicious or anything, so you can tell your parents that if they want to know. It’s about twenty minutes away, walking, and fifteen minutes more to my house. Actually, do you want to come over for dinner afterward? Or maybe even sleep over? I know for a fact that you’re already done with your homework for tomorrow.”

She looked at me, faintly surprised.

I remembered Lily Kensington’s surprise and for a moment felt cold.

The moment passed quickly.

“But I do have homework,” Maggie protested pathetically.

I scoffed. “No, you don’t. Come on.”

Maggie shrugged and followed me out the door.

After walking to the station and being reluctantly informed by an easily intimidated secretary that Alex was at the scene of a murder at 28 Lark Place, in Chelsea, Maggie and I headed in that direction. I looked up where it was on my phone and pretended to follow the directions, even though I knew exactly where it was. Maggie didn’t realize. She just gave me a misty sort of smile the whole way along as I chattered at her about Alex, and about my mom’s habit of inviting people over for dinner, and about how I wondered if the house was a Perfect Killer crime scene. I don’t think she was listening half the time.

When we got to the crime scene, there was crime-scene tape everywhere and a near army of reporters. Maggie and I wound our way through the throngs of onlookers and cameras, glancing at the people who lived in the neighborhood as they stood wide-eyed near the outskirts of the scene.

I did my best to keep them from seeing my face, given the fact that they were possible witnesses. Of course, I was subtle about it.

Maggie followed me as I went toward the blue-shuttered house. She was quiet but didn’t look particularly disturbed or nervous. She did look a little blank, though, as if she were ignoring things that were going on around her, shutting them out, simply pretending that they didn’t exist and hoping they would go away.

We got to the tape line in front of the steps and stood looking up at the house. All around us were police officers and reporters. The reporters stood aimlessly, waiting to film, or talked at the camera in calm, slow voices. The officers were silent and steely faced. I stood on tiptoe and tried to see inside the door, which hung slightly ajar.

Maggie tugged on the hem of my shirt.

“Yeah?” I said hazily.

“Are you sure we’re supposed to be here?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure. Why not? The street is public property, yeah?”

“Yeah, but . . . this is . . . murder. . . .”

“I told you, I know one of the inspectors. No, wait, sorry, he’s not an inspector yet. But he’s sort of important.”

Maggie looked uncertain. I laughed at her.

“Calm down, all right?” I entreated her.

“Yeah,” she murmured.

Alex walked out the front door, talking to an older man. He was in strict uniform today, his hair swept messily away from his face and black-rimmed glasses sitting on his nose, pushed close to his focused eyes.

“Alex!” I called, standing on tiptoe and waving to him. The police officers in the vicinity turned to look at me with a bit of confusion. Alex paused, taking a moment from his conversation with the man to look in my direction. When he saw me, he smiled grimly and said something to the man. I suddenly found myself smiling too—it was nice to be recognized, especially by him. I felt like something was beginning to bind us together, and I rather liked it.

The man nodded and glanced at me, and both of them began to walk in my direction. They came down the steps and stopped on the other side of the tape. The older man stuck a hand out toward me sharply. The nearby police officers held back enthusiastic reporters as they homed in on him like hungry dogs.

“Oh,” I said, a bit startled, and took the proffered hand with raised eyebrows. He shook my hand and gave me a quick nod. He was tall but thickset, with heavy silver eyebrows and sharp blue eyes.

“Chief Superintendent Davies,” he said, introducing himself gruffly. Alex stood off to one side, expressionless.

“Oh,” I said again, shaking his hand. “Well. It’s nice to meet you. Sir. I’m Kit Ward.”

Maggie, I saw out of the corner of my eye, looked suddenly nauseous.

I felt a little bit the same way. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the police to begin with, and someone as highly ranked as a chief superintendent made me a little more than uncomfortable.

“I heard you added an interesting insight to the case yesterday,” he said.

“Ah—well—yes, I suppose,” I said uncertainly.

“It was a clever thought.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Superintendent Davies turned back toward Alex and nodded at him.

“I’ll leave you in his capable hands,” the superintendent said. “I have things I have to attend to, so he’s really the one running the investigation, even though it’s officially my responsibility. Smart boy, he is,” he said, as if I didn’t already know.

“Thank you, sir,” I said awkwardly as he slid under the caution tape and walked away through the crowd without another word.

Alex stepped toward me, brushing slightly against my arm, making me shiver, though the air wasn’t unusually cold. He gestured after the superintendent’s retreating back.

“He’s bit pompous, but he’s good at what he does. And no, that something isn’t investigating murderers. He’s too important to do the grunt work. He’s administration, mostly,” Alex said to me, friendly, as if I were a pet or a new toy. “I was hoping you’d come. We need a new eye here. It’s the same deal as before—an untraceable murder. It’s frustrating.”

I grinned, despite the fact that I knew I shouldn’t, despite the fact that I knew people didn’t smile at murder scenes.

“You’re beginning to trust me,” I said cheerfully. I raised my eyebrows as if to say,
I promised! I told you I would see you tomorrow and I did!

“You’re smart. You’ve already proven that.” He shrugged. “And honestly, at this point, I’m willing to try anything.”

He lifted up the tape and gave me a
what the hell
look. I smiled wryly and walked underneath. Then I remembered Maggie. I turned back to her to say something, mouth open, but she beat me to it.

“I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind,” she murmured. I nodded.

“I’ll be back in a bit. I won’t be long,” I told her.

“I’ll wait on the far curb. It’s less crowded there.”

“All right. I’ll see you in a few, then.”

“Right.”

Alex let the tape fall, and shoulder to shoulder, we walked inside. Police officers passed by me, looking very official, making me feel like a child. Once we got into the front hallway, where Lily Kensington had put her hand on my shoulder, he gestured to the room to our left, where I had killed her. I let him guide me.

They had moved the body. On the black carpet, white tape outlined where Lily had been, crumpled up like a doll. Other than that, the room was untouched. The bloodstains weren’t even visible on the carpet.

“Perfect,” I whispered under my breath. It just slipped out before I noticed it had left my lips.

Alex heard me.

“It is, isn’t it?” he said resentfully.

I bit my lip and reminded myself to be careful before I said something really incriminating.

“It’s so . . . clean. No signs of struggle at all.”

“The
couch pillows
are still in place,” he said angrily. “No DNA, no fingerprints, no witnesses, no broken windows or picked locks, nothing. Nothing but the body.”

“What did the body look like?” I asked. He was silent for a moment, as if wondering whether he should tell me, and then he sighed.

“She was by the couch, on her back, with her face smashed in. The shards of her nasal bone just went up into her brain and killed her, as far as I can tell, though don’t quote me on that, that’s not confirmed.”

“On her back?’ I said, feigning confusion.

“Yes,” he replied, biting his thumb, concentrating, trying to figure it out.

This was why I wanted him to consider me an idiot. Idiots weren’t called on to solve their own murders. Idiots didn’t have to wonder about how much information was too much information, or how much they could say in order to gain the trust of the police without giving themselves away as the murderer.

Idiots had it easy.

“Hmm,” I said quietly, thoughtfully.

“Any ideas?”

“Well . . . I don’t know . . .” I hoped my act was convincing. “What kind of smashed-in face was it? Wow, that’s a morbid question, but you know, it could help.”

“Eh . . . well . . . I don’t know, just smashed in.”

“Like . . . was the whole thing smashed in, or was just the nose smashed in, or . . . you know . . .”

“Just the nose, I think,” he said, his voice a bit lighter.

“And she was faceup by the couch?” I asked, eyeing the white lines.

“Yes.”

I pretended to think about this.

“It looks almost like . . . because her center of gravity would be really down . . .”

“What?”

“She would have been sitting on the couch. If someone came up behind her . . . no, the front of her face is smashed in,” I muttered discontentedly. “You’re sure no windows were broken?”

“Yeah. No picked locks either. And the neighbors didn’t hear anything. And there wasn’t any surveillance video either.”

I backed up and leaned against the wall near the TV, where I had leaned just the night before.

“Shit,” I said.

I’m good,
I thought.

“You don’t see anything I don’t?” he asked.

I shook my head. He sighed and ran his fingers tiredly through his hair.

“Normally, I’d say that the murderer was a friend, since there were no picked locks or anything, but since this is a serial killer, I guess we can rule that out,” he said, thinking aloud. “It’s the same every time. A perfect murder, simple and clean, with no clues and no witnesses. And every time, a letter.”