eighty-four

Monday, 5-April

Dear Nathan,

Since you’re reading this page, you’ve already read Annie’s journal entries. Now you comprehend the truth of Annie’s last moments on Earth. When I whispered that Zoe was to blame for your heartache, I spoke the truth, no?

After the paramedics carted you off, I realized what a stroke of good fortune it was that you hadn’t managed to kill Zoe. For both of us. If you’d succeeded, you’d be locked up permanently and I wouldn’t have anything to use in my negotiations with the guards regarding my own wee predicament—it’s looming, any day now. By the time you read this, all charges will be dropped.

Life is funny that way, isn’t it? Turning shite into fertilizer.

I suppose prison will have to satisfy me when it comes to your daughter. She’ll get out some day, and then we’ll see. She should not have harmed my dear Annie. Since she was your dear Annie, too, you comprehend how I feel.

One last thing. You misunderstood the significance of the bouquet. The flowers I chose had nothing to do with Annie. Hardly! The bouquet was a tribute to what I planned for Zoe (through you, as it turned out). I was disappointed in her behavior, I rejected her, I was a danger to her. That’s all. Simple, really. It took me a day to find the blooms and let them wither, you see, so I left them the day after Annie died—the evening I texted you and Merrit. I hoped you would understand the message.

I leave you for now, Nathan Tate. It was an odd pleasure, one psych patient to another.

Wishing you a full, Zoe-free recovery—

Your friend, Sid