90

Three in the morning, and nothing left here in Flamingo Marina for Cal.

Except horror.

Nothing for him any other place either. Not now that he had committed the worst crime in the world.

Matricide.

He’d probably use that word in the Epistle some day, he thought, liking the sound of it inside his head, but he’d left his writings in the dump in the alleyway, and there could be no going back there ever again.

Cal supposed that ultimately the cops – and maybe their shrinks too, maybe even some FBI profiler – would pore over his words, and that was fine with him. He had, he guessed, always half wanted the Epistle to be read, his writing analysed, maybe even admired.

Maybe one day, if he survived this, he’d start over, write some more.

But for now, all he could do was sit on top of the steps on Baby, raindrops falling on his sinful head, trying not to think about his dead mother down below.

Wondering which would be worse.

Going to hell right off, or being sent there via a fucking lethal injection for being a multiple killer.

And don’t forget the baby.

Cop’s baby.

‘Imbecile,’ Jewel had called him.

Not altogether wrong.

He hadn’t shown her the kid, had balked at that.

Hell, he figured, was maybe the one thing stopping him from killing himself right away.

Though maybe he ought to at least start planning how to do it.

Not quite yet though.

Things to do.