They also found the wallets of two missing men: art critic Carl Danvers and Professor Oswald. The papers noted that Danvers attended a party with Shaw shortly before his disappearance, and that Shaw was one of the professor’s students at CalArts when he likewise went missing. The professor’s wallet finally allowed the death of Valerie Whittaker to be linked to the Beast.
Cole was extremely pleased that I managed to break into Shaw’s apartment before the cops showed up.
“And you didn’t leave a single print!” he said, admiringly.
“I learned from the best,” I grinned back at him.
I’ve come a long way on my journey, to the point where planting evidence is exhilarating rather than horrifying. I’m beginning to understand how even the most reckless acts can feel like a game, the high stakes only enhancing the fun.
Still, I’m glad it’s over.
Or I suppose I should say, almost over.
I have one piece of unfinished business to attend to.
I’m standing on the front step of a dingy, single-level house in Bakersfield. The grass is unwatered and uncut, the garden beds nothing but bare dirt.
I have to ring the bell several times before I hear the shuffling sounds of someone moving inside the house.
At last the door cracks open, and I see an eye pressed against the space, peering out suspiciously.
For a second, she doesn’t recognize me.
Then she pulls the door wide, straightening up, blinking in the garish spring sunshine.
I almost wouldn’t recognize her, either.
She’s chopped her hair to shoulder length, frizzy and uneven. Threads of gray run through, poorly covered by an at-home dye job. She’s gained weight, enough that she fills out the baggy oversized sweatshirt that once belonged to me. As faded as it’s become, I still remember that retro Disney logo on the front. I never actually went to Disneyland—I bought the hoodie at a thrift shop, hoping other kids would think I’d been.
Makeup from the night before cakes around her eyes, settling in the wrinkles beneath. The lines are deep, etched in place from every ugly expression she’s carried, hour after hour, day after day, all these years.
Her face bears record of every scowl, every sneer. No smile lines at the corners of her eyes—only trenches on her forehead, between her eyebrows, and in marionette lines running from her nose to the edges of her mouth.
She’s become a witch from a fairy tale. Transformed by misery. The darkness inside finally reflected on her face.
Those gray-blue eyes still glitter with malice. The same color as mine—cold as San Francisco fog blowing in off the bay.
A part of her will always be in me.
But I choose which part.
“Hello Mom,” I say.
I can see her struggle.
She prefers to be the one showing up unannounced on people’s doorsteps. She hates that I’m trespassing in her space, catching her unaware.
On the other hand, she’s been trying to find me for years. She can’t possibly slam the door in my face when she’s finally getting what she wants.
“What are you doing here?” she croaks.
I must have woken her, even though it’s ten o’clock in the morning. The sour scent of unwashed clothing, spilled wine, and stale cigarettes wafts out of the house. An old, old smell for me. One that recalls my earliest days.
“I brought you a gift,” I say, holding up a bottle of merlot, her favorite.
Her eyes flick to the label and back to my face, narrowing. I have never bought her alcohol in all my life.
“A peace offering,” I say. “I have something to discuss with you.”
I already know she won’t be able to resist. The wine is only half as tempting as what she really wants: the chance to dig information out of me.
“Fine,” she grunts, holding the door wider and retreating back into the house so I can follow.
That’s as good as an invitation.
I cross the threshold, closing the door behind me.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the interior gloom. I stand still until they do, so I don’t trip over the piles of pizza boxes, empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, discarded clothing, scattered shoes, stacks of old magazines, junk mail, and moldering paper plates still marked with the remains of meals long past.
“Sit anywhere,” my mother says, flopping down on a pile of blankets on the ratty sofa—clearly the same place she was sleeping moments before.
I have to move a pile of old newspapers off the closest chair before I can likewise sit down. I recognize the paper on top: it’s the same one Arthur showed me during my last shift at Sweet Maple. The one that contains a picture of me in the arts section.
A tiny smirk plays over my mother’s lips as I set the papers aside.
She sparks up a cigarette, holding it in her usual way, pinched between thumb and index finger like it’s a joint.
I know her habits so well. Their familiarity repulses me, like an old journal entry that makes you cringe.
“Do you have a bottle opener?” I ask.
Of course she has a bottle opener. I might as well ask if she has toilet paper. It’s probably even more of a necessity in her eyes.
“In the kitchen,” she says, making no move to stand and retrieve it.
This is a power play—making me fetch the corkscrew and the glasses, waiting on her like I used to.
I anticipated this, and it suits me just fine.
I carry the wine into the kitchen, which is even filthier than the living room. The stovetop is piled with so much clutter that I doubt she’s ever laid eyes on the burners, let alone used them to cook. When I snap on the overhead light, several roaches dive down under the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.
The cabinets are empty. I find the glasses in the dishwasher, amongst a pile of plates speckled with green mold. Swallowing back bile, and avoiding the roaches as best I can, I wash the cups in the sink. I have to swish a little water in the Dawn bottle to get the last dregs of soap out of it.