He grabbed her arm roughly, leading her away from the crowded campus courtyard. He couldn’t believe that she’d had the nerve to show up, invading his privacy. Standing by her car, he set his jaw, the anger rising from him like steam. “What the hell are you doing here?” he growled. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
The pain was evident on her aging face. “You never call or write. You didn’t come home for Thanksgiving. What else could I do?”
“You could take a fucking hint,” he hissed. “I don’t want to see you. Not now. Not ever again.”
“But I’m your mother,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I love you.”
He glanced around, hoping no one was watching the embarrassing display. “Okay, mother… get in the car. We’ll take a drive. We’ll talk.”
She smiled, certain that once they were alone, he would remember the good times. After he climbed in, she pulled away from the curb, tingling with anticipation.
Several miles later, she was dead. He had been amazed at how little he felt as he killed her, his hands choking the life out of her.
Killing whores was easy, he mused.
Her body was never found. She was never even reported missing. The only family she had, except for her dead husband’s long forgotten family, was the boy who killed her. She was dead. And nobody cared.
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