Page 94 of Too Old for This

“I think it’s great. You can go to as many churches as you like. That’s your prerogative.”

I answer with a firm nod, as if she has convinced me. “You’re right. I shouldn’t feel bad, should I?”

“No, you should not.” Morgan clasps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, but I let your secret out, didn’t I? Oh, I’m so sorry.”

I wave my hand, brushing her words aside. “Don’t you worry about it one bit. Like you said, I’m not doing anything wrong.” I reach over and take her hand. “I’m so glad we’ve had this time together. And I mean that. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you.”

“Strange, right? That we’re about to be family and hardly know each other?”

“We do now.”

We say our goodbyes in the parking lot of the church. She refuses to accept a ride to the airport, even pointing to my cane as an excuse. “I didn’t know your arthritis had gotten so bad.”

“It’s fine. Please don’t worry about me.”

She hugs me. Twice. “Thank you for everything. You really made me feel welcome.”

I put my hand on her cheek. She really is a sweet girl. I hope Archie knows that.

When I get back to my house, I make a cup of Earl Grey and sit in my recliner for a minute, thinking about the last couple of days with Morgan. Up until this visit, I had been dreading the future family dynamic. Stephanie on one side, Archie and Morgan on the other, and Olive, Noah, and the new baby somewhere in the middle, all of them needing a grandmother. It was shaping up to be a nightmare.

Now, not so much.

I get up and head into the garage. Time to start burning Norma.

CHAPTER 51

The windows have been open all night, but the smell of charred human body lingers. Good thing the houses on Bluebell Lane are on huge lots, otherwise my neighbors might have grown suspicious about it. But they never have.

I throw some cinnamon sticks in a pot of water and let it simmer on the stove. At least it makes the kitchen smell better while I drink my coffee.

Once I got started last night, I didn’t stop. In the past, I have done it over a couple of nights, but not this time. With Norma, I felt compelled to keep going, to keep burning, to rid my life of every last piece of her. Maybe because Morgan found that finger, maybe because of all my mistakes, but I kept burning until my freezer was empty.

This morning, I sit down with Plum’s file and read those old articles. I’ve heard that some killers like to keep articles and news clippings about themselves and their crimes. That kind of nostalgia has never been interesting to me.

Though on occasion, I do look online. The internet hasn’t been around long enough to have all of them; only a few are there.

Still, I’m not searching for a trip down memory lane. I flip through the file until I find the transcripts. In our final interview, Burke focused on Walter Simmons.

Walter.

Of all the people to bring me down, it was almost him. That paunchy, dumpy man whose face looked like a lychee.

Burke knew Walter had been a volunteer umpire for Little Tots baseball. But he had no idea Archie had almost played in the league. Or that on the first day of tryouts, Walter had grabbed Archie’s arm and screamed at him for not knowing the rules.

“Didn’t anyone teach you how to play baseball?”

Walter brought Archie over to me and said my son couldn’t come back until he knew how to play.

“You had no business bringing him here today,” Walter said. I can still picture the way his face snarled up as he spoke.

Archie never went back. He never wanted to play baseball again.

Months later, my car was in the shop, and I had to take the bus to pick it up. Walter was on the same bus. It almost seemed serendipitous that we both got off the bus at the same stop. It was right in front of a movie theater showingSt. Elmo’s Fire. I watched Walter buy a ticket to the five-thirty show.

My garage was two blocks down, and I rushed to get there before they closed, then drove back to that theater and parked on the street. That’s why I got a parking ticket, the one Burke discovered.

I hadn’t forgotten what Walter did to Archie and what he’d said to me. And I was no less angry about it. That’s the thing about anger. It doesn’t just sit around, doing nothing inside of you. Anger has to go somewhere.