Page 51 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

James sat in the chair across from me, the chair I’d started to think of as Ruth’s chair.

My eyes raked over him, trying to soak up every detail.

He had been a young man the last time I saw him and now he was in his sixties.

His dark hair had turned light gray and he had a full beard that hid the dimple in his chin, but he still had the same warm eyes and closed-mouth smile.

Just looking at him made me happier than anything I’d experienced in the last forty years.

I felt as if I was traveling back in time to when he was a toddler, to that little apartment in Brooklyn where we would lie in bed and I would touch his soft face and smell his freshly washed hair. Back when it was us against the world.

“You’re here,” I whispered, reaching over and clutching his hand like it was an exquisite gift. He nodded, although I noticed that he slowly withdrew his hand.

“Yes. I heard that you’re going to prison soon. I thought this would probably be my last chance.”

“Why all the subterfuge though?” I asked. “Skulking around at night?”

“Do you know how much media attention your case is getting? I was worried that if I called up your lawyer or the senior center and told them who I was that it would get leaked to the press. I don’t want people to find me, to know who I really am,” James said.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve been listening to the podcast of course, so I knew you were in Florida.

Then I hired a private detective, but he didn’t get me anything concrete.

But I also joined some online groups that discussed the case, to see if I could get any information while remaining anonymous.

Somebody on there told me about Coconut Grove.

” He smiled. “You’d like the name I used; it was kind of an homage to you. ”

“What was it?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t something heinous like ‘OldBitch’ or ‘WrinklySatan.’

“CapoteParty.”

“Oh, because he wrote In Cold Blood ? The best murder book out there?” I asked.

James laughed and shook his head.

“No, because he wrote Breakfast at Tiffany’s ! You always said that was your favorite movie. You dragged me to see it whenever it was playing.” The things he knew about me, the memories we shared, it warmed my heart. James was the best part of me, and he’d been lost to me for so long.

“It’s still my favorite movie,” I said. “She was everything I ever wanted to be.”

“She was you,” he said, looking at me like I was crazy. We sat in silence for a moment.

“What do you think about the podcast?” I asked, for something to say.

“It can be hard to listen to. . . especially when you’re talking about things I remember. But in a way I’m glad that it’s finally all out there. I was surprised you agreed to it. Although I was also surprised you confessed when you’d gotten away with it,” James said.

I shook my head. I knew now that I hadn’t gotten away with it, not really, not when I’d lost the person I loved most in the process.

“I hoped. . . I hoped that if it all came out that you might find me again.”

“Is that why you confessed?” he asked, surprise in his voice. I smiled, feeling modest and noble even though I didn’t deserve to.

“Yes. You didn’t want to keep my secrets. So now you don’t have to.” His eyes filled with tears and he hunched over.

I saw his shoulders shake as if he was trying to bite back the sobs, to tamp it all down inside.

He used to do that when he was younger too.

It started not long after he lost David.

My eyes began to tingle, and I felt as if I might cry too.

I hated seeing my boy upset. This whole thing had been about finding him and setting him free. I wanted him to be happy.

“But Mom. . .” he started, after he collected himself, drying his face and sitting straighter in his chair.

“I also wanted you to stop killing.” There was a deep sadness in his voice, a crushing disappointment.

So, he knew about Donald. And Warren. I could have tried to tell him that it was all in the past, but Warren was barely in the ground.

I really shouldn’t have killed him, but I suppose it was a bit of Dutch courage, a little reminder of what I could do before I finally came out into the open.

Besides, I needed proof, a verifiable murder for the cops to take me seriously.

“Well, baby, sometimes you just have to accept people for who they are. Can you. . . tell me about yourself?” I asked hesitantly, scared that if I said the wrong thing then the door would slam shut again. He took a deep breath and I thought he might cry some more, but finally he began to speak.

“Well, I live in New Zealand now. Originally, I moved to Australia, but New Zealand suits me better. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.

I’m a science teacher at the local high school but I’ll retire soon.

I’ve been married twice. The first was a short marriage.

I think I had some issues that I needed help with, but now I’ve been married twenty-five years. ”

“Any kids?” I asked.

“Yes. I’ve got a seventeen-year-old son and a nineteen-year-old daughter. I’m an old dad! But I’m having the time of my life.”

“I’m sure you’re a great father,” I said, remembering the kindness I’d seen ever since he was a child. “Finding out what happened to you. . . I couldn’t ask for anything more. You’re all I think about.”

He didn’t say anything back. This conversation was difficult, like navigating a treacherous mountain path, so different from the smooth, easy way we used to talk.

“Are you scared of prison?” James asked.

“No. I’ve seen so much in my life, it’s hard to be afraid,” I said awkwardly. “But maybe, once I go, would you consider phoning your sisters? I know they miss you too.”

James didn’t say anything for a moment, likely considering what it would mean to re-establish contact with them, how his life might be permanently changed. Finally, he nodded. I sighed with relief. I didn’t want him out there, disconnected from us any longer.

“Have you told your wife and kids. . . about me?” I asked.

He didn’t reply immediately, just took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. I imagined kissing him, just as I’d done when he was a little boy, when I’d kiss him a million times a day but never feel like it was enough. I settled for grabbing his hand again, feeling his bones against mine.

“I told them that you were a good mother, the kind of mother who read me stories at night and threw me birthday parties. That you were loving, and kind, and very glamorous. But that you died a long time ago,” James said quietly.

“Yes,” I said. “I think that’s about right.”

Let’s be honest, I never intended to go to prison, to leave this comfortable room with its memory foam mattress and plush cream carpets for a prison cell with a thin bed and an open toilet in the corner.

It was my decision to confess, as a last-ditch effort to find my son and to set him free from the burden of keeping my secrets.

I had never lost control, and I didn’t plan on relinquishing it now.

I just wanted one final adventure before my curtain call, one chance to change things.

I’ve said things out loud that I had thought would die with me and it was liberating. All of the people who’d hurt me were dead, forgotten by history and unremarked upon. But I had outlived the bastards and now no one would ever forget me. It was a good ending.

Once James left, I picked up the prescription pills I’d been hoarding ever since I confessed, pills I always assured the attendants I would take in the privacy of my bathroom. Now, I began to take handfuls of them, forcing them down with gulps of water. Then I climbed into bed. It was time to go.

Ruth had asked me once if I believed in God and I said no and that there was probably no afterlife either.

“But doesn’t that make your crimes worse?

” she had asked. “If you believe you’re sending people into nothingness?

” I had shrugged and said that I wasn’t in charge of what happened to people after death, just how they got there.

I’d always wondered when I died if I would see the people I killed.

I figured that instead of my life flashing before my eyes, maybe I would just see the lives I’d ended, the people whose last sight had been my face hovering above them.

The thought didn’t scare me. It’d be nice to see them one last time.

And there they were.

They were clustered around my bed, looming over me like a canopy.

Most of them looked angry, their faces accusing as they scowled down at me.

David, however, just looked sad: his eyebrows furrowed as if he could finally see who I was and it pained him.

Robert and Gabrielle stood at the foot of my bed, having been given pride of place by the other apparitions.

Gabrielle was wearing the clothes she’d been in the night I hit her with my car, and I could see gravel glinting in her hair.

Robert had his arm around her and was crying.

His mouth was moving and even though I heard no words, I knew he was asking me why .

They wanted to know why; why instead of hurting the people who had actually harmed me, I had turned on people who had only wanted the things all people want: love, companionship, the chance to be appreciated.

But I had no answers for them. We never do. I smiled. And then everything went black .