14 LIFE-CHANGING DECISIONS FOR THE IMPULSIVE
She nuzzled in the crook of my arm, sharing my pillow. The power outage extended from Schenectady to Warrensburg. A candle burned on the night table, the scent apples and cinnamon. Shadows ebbed and flowed across the ceiling. “I don’t want you working there anymore,” she said.
“Tonight was a one-off.”
“It’s been a year of one-offs.”
“Nothing’s happened. Nothing will.”
“You lie like a rug. You forget how well I know you—what goes on in that brain of yours.”
“Nothing is going to happen.”
“How many more crazies are out there? What if it’s the son or daughter of someone your father killed next time? A husband? A wife? Somebody looking for revenge?”
“You’ve seen too many movies. I am not my father. People know the difference.”
“Tell that to Dobsie.”
“C’mon, Cor. He was nobody.”
“A nobody who could have killed you. And what about those creeps who show up with those disgusting books? Coffee table books about murder! Seriously? And you sign them like it’s normal. You think I haven’t noticed?”
“They’re my father’s fans.”
“Do you want to be killed? Are you hoping to be?"
“I told you, I just expect to be.”
Her sigh trod the boundaries of mourning.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said, feeling my way, though I’d rehearsed the conversation in my head a thousand times. “If you’re open to it, there is something I’d like to try. It was your idea, really.”
I told her I wanted to write a book about my father, my mother, and what it meant to be trapped between the two. I’d been keeping notes for years. My Personal Journal of the Damned.
And then I told her where I wanted to write the story. This was where my mother’s wedding gift came into play. I’d kept it from Cori long enough.
I will not lie. I hoped she’d nip the whole dumb idea in the bud.
As for the book I was going to write, this isn’t it.