Page 12 of Kill Your Darlings

Jason seemed to think for a moment. “Nope. I was just in my room. Why was a police detective here?”

“He had some questions about Alex Deighton, your dad’s coworker.”

“Seriously?”

“Nothing that important. Pretty routine stuff.”

“Is Dad a suspect?”

“You mean, do they think your father murdered Alex? If they did, they don’t now. He was here sleeping when Alex drowned.”

“But that means that they think that it was a murder.”

“I don’t know about that. Maybe. I think they’re just making sure.”

“Interesting,” Jason said, and raised his eyebrows dramatically.

Walking back downstairs, she thought about what a strange age Jason was at, halfway between being a boy and becoming a teenager,

although he was running pretty late in the teenager department. Most of his friends already had cracked voices and fuzzy upper

lips, and Julia, Jason’s best friend, had recently sprouted into a supermodel, while Jason seemed stuck in his gangly child’s

body. But he wasn’t really a child anymore, and she was pretty sure he’d just lied to her about not knowing the detective

had come to visit. It didn’t bother her, but she felt a little bit sad about it. Once upon a time Jason told her everything.

ii

Thom offered to help Wendy with the big meal, was turned away, and happily went to his office. His parents had told him they

would be there at noon, which meant eleven thirty, and that gave him two solid hours to write. He opened up his laptop, went

to Word, and clicked on “open recent” in order to get back to the crushingly awful novel he’d started at the beginning of

the summer. There it was, tentatively called The Ghost in You , but it wasn’t at the top of the list of recently opened files. There were two files above it, one titled “Letter of Resignation”

and one called “From Paris to Berlin.” Thom, confused, hunted his memories from the previous day. Had he gotten so drunk last

night that he had somehow opened up two old files with no memory of doing so? It was true that he’d had a few whiskeys in

front of the television while watching his DVD of The Shawshank Redemption , but he’d stayed relatively sober. After the film was over, he remembered guiltily eating the rest of the mint-chocolate-chip

ice cream over the sink, then he’d gone straight to bed. Who had opened these files on his computer?

He couldn’t even remember what “Letter of Resignation” was, so he opened it up first. It was vaguely familiar, something he’d written years ago, a joke letter that he had no intention of sending. It read:

To Professor Deighton,

This letter is to formally notify you that I’m resigning my tenured professorship at New Essex State University, effective

immediately.

Thank you for this opportunity. All it has cost me is my sanity, my sexual potency, my sobriety, and my will to live.

And I want to thank you personally for the guidance and patience you have showered on me in my tenure under your supervision.

Without it, I would have maintained the view that human beings, especially of the subspecies Universitus Administratus, were

essentially benign in nature. I now know that this is false, that one human being, namely you, can embody every single terrible

trait known to man, you flatulent, small-fingered, wobbly-necked, greedy, unfunny, pigeon-toed, pigeon-brained exemplar of

the worst generation at the end of fucking civilization as we know it.

With sincerest regards,

Thom Graves

After rereading it with mild amusement, Thom opened up the other file. It was a story, one he’d started many years ago. He

hadn’t gotten very far with it, so he read the whole thing.

From Paris to Berlin

a short story

by T. E. Graves

The train, after a seesawing start to the journey, had smoothed out just as the sprawling exurbs of Paris had been precipitously replaced by a series of yellowing fields under gray skies in terspersed with stone farmhouses.

Nick was about to light a cigarette, then remembered that he’d purposefully chosen the nonsmoking car so that he could stick to his wholly unrealistic goal of only smoking half a pack a day.

Instead, he removed the Julian Barnes book he’d been struggling with and cracked it open. The book at least gave him the opportunity

to gaze just above its top edge at his neighboring travelers. Weren’t French people supposed to be attractive? Just as that

thought went through his head, the nearest door hissed open and admitted a tall, possibly French but definitely attractive

woman of indeterminate age.

Nick used all his powers of suggestion to will her to sit in the empty seat across from him and couldn’t quite believe it

when it worked. She tucked one leg under the other and pulled out a paperback copy of Len Deighton’s Berlin Game . It was one of Nick’s favorite books and now he knew that this meeting was fated.

Awful awful awful awful awful awful awful awful awful awful awful awful

That was all he’d written. Three mediocre paragraphs plus his own review of them. Besides feeling disgust in himself that

he ever thought he could be a good writer, something else nagged at him. He suddenly realized what it was. Both the files

had the name “Deighton” in them. Was that why they had been opened?

He passed Jason’s closed door on the way down from his office and found Wendy peeling potatoes in the kitchen, listening to

NPR. “I have a very strange question,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Have you been on my computer recently opening Word documents?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

She smiled her mean smile, the one she saved for when Thom had just said something stupid. “Of course I’m sure. Why are you asking?”

He told her about the two opened files and how the only connection they seemed to have was the name Deighton.

“I think I know what happened,” Wendy said. “I didn’t mention it because I wasn’t sure, but I think Jason was on the stairs

listening to my whole conversation with the detective yesterday. I heard a creak, and then when I went up afterwards he was

acting shifty.”

“Did he do the thing where he pretends to be thinking about his answer?”

“He did. You know he’s in a detective phase right now. He’s probably investigating you to find out if you killed Alex.”

“Jesus. Well, at least I’m not going insane.”

“You should change your password.”

“Okay,” Thom said, knowing he probably wouldn’t. “That turkey smells good.”

“Yes, it does.”

Thom went and got himself another half cup of coffee, and while he was pouring it Wendy said, “He wouldn’t find anything incriminating

on your computer, would he?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. He’s a thirteen-year-old boy.”

“Are you talking about porn, or are you worried I typed up a confession to all the murders I’ve committed in my time?”

“Okay, okay. I didn’t mean to upset you. We just need to remember that we don’t have a little kid in the house anymore. He

hears and sees everything.”

Back upstairs Thom wondered what else Jason might have looked at on his computer.

He opened Chrome and checked the history.

Not surprisingly he saw a recent search for Alex Deighton, but alarmingly he also saw a search for Alexandra Fritsch.

How could Jason possibly know that name?

He was dizzy all of a sudden, like he’d been lifted up really fast and set back down, and he did his breathing exercises, trying to calm his mind.

Then he had a thought and typed “Alex” into the search bar on the browser.

A menu of possibilities presented itself.

Not just Alex Deighton and Alexandra Fritsch but also Alexander Hamilton and Alex Kingston and Alexis Bledel and a local pizza place called Alexander’s.

Jason must have put the name Alex into his search bar to see what had come up and Alexandra Fritsch, a name that Thom frequently entered, had appeared.

But it looked as though Jason had clicked on the name and read one of the accompanying news articles.

Thom opened the article himself, a story archived from the Lubbock Avalanche-Journal .

He’d read it before but glanced through it again, trying to see it through his son’s eyes. It began by referencing the unsolved

stabbing death of Alexandra Fritsch, over twenty years ago, then connecting that crime to the scandal that swept Caprock College

when it was revealed that some of the Texas college’s female students were part of an amateur prostitution ring.

Thom leaned back in his chair and thought for a while.

He decided that he didn’t really have much to worry about.

What bothered him the most, in a way, was that his son had read both his stupid letter to Deighton and his embarrassing European travel story.

It seemed like only a couple of years ago that Jason had seemed to idolize Thom, impressed by his job, by his sense of humor, even by his mediocre tennis game.

There was a period when Jason wore shorts late into the fall with button-down shirts and sweaters just like Thom did.

But those days were over. It was only a matter of time until Jason saw Thom the way that Thom saw himself: a failed, out-of-shape writer who drank too much and who was barely tolerated by his wife.

A wave of self-pity swept through him, making him feel even worse about himself.

His only hope was that Jason would never ever find out about his more cardinal sins.

He remembered what Wendy had said about his password and decided he ought to change it, even though he’d had the same one for the whole time he’d had the computer.

iii

After Thom’s parents had left (they always came too early, but they always left early as well), Wendy finished the dishes

and went to her office just to have a little bit of time for herself. Samsa was in there as well. Wendy had left a shoebox

on the floor a week ago and he’d turned it into his new favorite afternoon sleeping spot; she hadn’t had the heart to throw

the box out yet.