Among the Living Read Online Free PDF Page B

checks his wallet, which informs her that his name is Walter Smith and not Master M as he so blithely told her before he flogged the shit out of her.
    She folds her clothes carefully and placed them in a plastic bag, then she combs the room, picking up anything that looks out of the ordinary. She puts the flogger in a separate bag, and the belt joins it. Her lipstick goes into the same bag, then she takes the binding off his wrists and ankles. She bought the rope at Home Depot and uses several sizes so that none is from the same manufacturer as any other. Let the CSI guys figure that one out.
    She extracts the small vacuum and plugs in the AC adapter. Transferring the tiny device from outlet to outlet as she runs out of slack on the short cord, she cleans every inch of the tiny room, the chair, the bed, the couch. She slips to the ground and runs the cleaner under the furnishings.
    She packs everything away and then pours a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over his entire body to confuse the scene. She does something different every time because she knows from reading books about serial killers that the way they get caught is by using the same MO, or modus operandi. She takes a lint-free polishing cloth and goes over the entire room with it. Then she does it again.
    She showers one more time in scalding hot water and then dries off with the already wet towel, which she folds and puts in the bag. She dresses in a pair of gray slacks that burn as they slide over her thighs and ass. Then she slips on a pair of dark red pumps. A bra cups her tender breasts, covering the welts that still stand out from the night before. A blue silk blouse whispers over her bruised back. She buttons it up demurely and then goes into the bathroom to put on a blond wig. She applies a tint of pink lipstick to her full lips and studies her face in the mirror. Pretty, not beautiful, maybe a bit too long in the chin. Eyes ever so slightly upswept, possibly from an Asian relative a few generations ago. Brown eyes shine without the thick layer of eyeliner she wore when she came in. The half dozen clip-on earrings she wore last night are gone, and it looks odd to leave that side of her head bare.
    Who are you? she asks silently. The one you couldn’t be all those years ago, she answers just as silently.
     
     

Mike
     
     
    “Jim needs to see you,” Erin says before I have a chance to sit down. She studies me for a moment but doesn’t say a word. I suppose she is waiting for me to offer up a hint about my conversation with Rita. She has always been a good listener in the past, offering advice on my ex-wife and my feelings for her. But today I’m not in a sharing mood. I feel stifled, depressed, like I need to be two people at once, and I don’t have the energy for it. I think about how many times I have been the sounding board for Rita, how many times I have listened to her rant and rave in the middle of the night while offering nothing but lame sounds like ‘oh’ and ‘I’m sorry.’ The truth is I’m not sorry, not anymore.
    Erin’s eyes meet mine again, and I feel it, like an electric current passes through me. I feel like I should do something, say something, but I end it with a lame “Cool, thanks.” And walk away.
    Jim’s little slice of heaven is the epitome of an editor’s office. Stacks of old papers skulk in every corner. Piles of printouts obscure the surface of his desk. He has layouts plastered to the walls, hiding the handful of journalist awards on his ‘me wall.’ An old ceiling fan hangs over the desk like a decrepit set of arms complete with dust and detritus trailing from the blades. I’m sure it hasn’t been turned on in years; in fact, if it came on, we might have to evacuate the office to avoid a massive allergy attack.
    Jim perches on a four-legged wicker stool, leaning over so his forearms rest on his desk. He is peering at an old computer monitor that is as big as a tube television. It’s bulky and supported on a