Chapter 47 Chapter Forty Seven

who?I keep asking myself this question, while eating, showering, getting dressed, walking, talking about all sorts of completely unrelated topics.who?Whatever the reason for killing Clay's girlfriend, the killer must have had contact with him, or have been able to read his letters or come in and out of his cell, and know the identities of these women and their fantasy lives with Clay.So, who could it be?Complicity is of course possible.Or copycats: cops, prison guards, lunatics who somehow got access to these files, psychotic clerks in the justice system.Or it could be a stalker: another jealous lover, maybe, or someone envious of Clay's fame and the women's club.So that means the murderer has been following me, following my footsteps, going in and killing the girl as soon as I leave.Every time my mind returned to this point, a new wave of fear burned my chest and choked my throat, and I saw Sandra's upside-down corpse turning, followed by a blow to the head.Then I would ask myself: who?

Also, who has any plans for me?Am I a victim of perverts playing with me, like the characters in Jim Thompson's street stall novels?A framed scapegoat, like a protagonist in a Hitchcock movie?Or like all thriller plots (including my own) I'm just an unwitting witness about to be taken out by the killer, I'm too stupid to realize the truth and reappear as washed up on the beach in the next chapter corpse?There's another thought I dare not allow myself to think, let alone say out loud, that would have been so absurd yesterday: Is Clay really innocent?The real culprit has returned to the city?

One thing is certain: I can't count on Townes to protect me.He almost spit on my shoes when he left, and even my lawyer, Robertson, told me bluntly when he shook hands and said goodbye: "You should be prepared now, because you may be arrested at any time." "Don't worry," Claire said at the time, "I'll bail you out. Arresting him is just a formality, right?" Robertson shrugged. Speaking of which, Claire was fine.No sooner had she wiped away the tears than she shook off the fear in her chest, as if it were just a post-movie nightmare, returning to normal with the resilience of a young man.The sensibility of this generation has long been blunted by the nasty stuff our people instill through various media.She was back at work the next day, lying on my couch eating gummy gum.Straight from hockey practice, she's wearing sky blue shard sneakers, red knee socks, pleated school skirt and hoodie.Just look at her feet, and her hair combed close to her scalp and tied into a high ponytail, she looks like a fighting girl wearing a golden helmet in cartoons.

"I know it's a big tragedy," she said, chewing licorice candy, and sticking out her red-stained tongue at me, "but the market value of the book has tripled. I know that previous events made it It’s going to get attention, but let’s face it: the new body makes it feel like it’s on the shelves right after it hits the front page.” "Well, I know what that feels like," I said. "I've been on stomach medicine for two days, and that's what I'm trying to get rid of. I'm changing my name and moving to Kansas. Here's the couch." "Don't be so exaggerated. You've got six names. Like the Watergate dudes, Woodstein and Burns. Did Nixon try to kill them? Did they run away?"

"Nixon didn't chop their heads off with a cleaver. Go rent a movie." "You're a writer, damn it!" she said, pointing at me with a jiggle, like a scandalous version of an old editor with a cigar. Best at what to do." "forgive me." She shrugged. "At least I'm going to interview Clay tomorrow. You're safe in jail." She has a point.I do have an appointment to see Clay tomorrow.As usual, I was supposed to visit Sandra first, then write a story for Clay in exchange for an interview.But reality intervened savagely, and of course I didn't write a single word.The most extreme and disturbing fantasies are nothing but children's stories compared to the news in the newspapers.What about Clay's book?Is it still realistic?At the moment I can say that I have a writing bottleneck: I have only one thought in my head, and that is not to become a character in the book.However, the appointment was still written on the calendar, and no one canceled it; behind the protection of iron bars and armed guards, talking to someone who certainly did not attack me, but may know who the murderer is, I don't think it is a bad idea. idea.So I packed up, took the night train across, and checked into the same hapless motel.I called Dani, but no one answered.She may be working, hanging naked from a steel pipe.

However, the prison wasn't as warm and cozy as I'd hoped it would be.Although going through the iron gates was no more terrifying than going out to the restaurant, I still felt insecure.It was as if everyone knew who I was.I was "the one" and everyone was staring at me and I felt blessed and ashamed.I was infected with "Kray's disease" and even the prison guards who frisked me didn't seem to want to touch me when I went through the security gate.Like a disreputable guest in a nightclub, I'm whisked into the meeting room by a gust of wind—Teresa Treo has arrived, tapping her toes at the battered vending machine.Seeing me, she stood up.

"Very well, here you are, they are waiting for you." "them?" "Carol wants to see you. Ms. Floski." Something was in her mind that made her beam like a little girl.Her eyes are bright. "We -- she's seen the judge and the governor's chief counsel. It's a bright spot now." "Glad that the disembowelling of three women made you so happy." She turned her head away from my sarcasm and picked up the potato chips on the table. "That's not what I meant. I'm sorry for them. But now the police may be able to catch the real culprit," she said.

"Police? Please. Know who their prime suspect is? Me." Teresa raised her eyebrows, and I laughed. "What's even more frightening is that the real murderer knows these three girls, when I see them, their addresses, everything." I leaned closer to her and looked her in the eyes, "Who knows these things? Clay. You Poor innocent victims." Teresa and I met eyes and said, "A lot of people probably know. Including me." including you.I think of the tattoos I glimpsed under her clothes, and the online chats I had with Bloodline T3, and I think she has such a seductive twist, that she has an inner life that no one knows about.my fans.A weirdo who loves vampires.I asked myself: Will she ever know who I really am?I answered myself: so what?I felt dizzy and tasted the bitter taste of bile again, the horrible taste of fear: a concoction of nausea, adrenaline, and a railroad dog.A guard appeared at the door and called out my name.

"See you later." I said.She seemed to give me a sly smile, and took my novel out of her bag.

---

Notes: