It was dark in the kitchen when I came in, but you had the lights and TV on in the living room. There was also a carving knife on the counter next to the sink, but I left it where it was.

I had my own, which is something you probably already knew about me—if you read my other e-mails.

I waited for as long as I could bear to in the kitchen, listening to you and your companion. I couldn’t hear exactly what you were saying to each other, but I liked the sound of your voices. I even liked knowing that I’d be the last person to ever hear them.

Then the nervousness started to come back. It was just a little at first, but I knew it would get worse if I waited much longer.

I could have left the condo right then if I wanted to, and you’d never even have known I was there.

That’s one way you’re like the others. No one seems to know I’m around until their time comes. The Invisible Woman, that’s me. That’s a lot of us, actually.

When I waltzed into the living room, you both jumped up at the same time. I made sure you saw the gun, and you stayed still after that. I wanted to ask if you knew why I came for you, why you deserved to die, but I was afraid I wouldn’t finish if I didn’t do it right away.

I pulled the trigger, and you fell flat on your back. Your roommate screeched; then he tried to run. I couldn’t imagine where he thought he was going to escape to.

I shot him, and I think he may have died immediately. You both seemed to just die. Not much fight in you, especially considering what a snippy, nasty little man you are.

Good-bye, Arnold. You’re gone, and know what else? You’re already forgotten.

Chapter 74

Chapter 74

THE STORYTELLER HAD TO STOP the stream of murders now. He knew that; it was part of the plan, and the plan was a good one. What a pity, though, what a shame. He was just getting good at this, and he hadn’t been good at anything for a long time.

Anyway, congratulations were in order. Praise for him was all over the TV, and in the newspapers, of course. Especially the L.A. Times, which had made that piece-of-shit Arnold Griner into such a saint and martyr. Everyone recognized the Storyteller’s masterpiece—only it was so much better than they knew.

And he did want to celebrate, only there was still no one he could tell. He’d tried that in Vancouver and look what had happened. He’d had to kill a friend, well, an acquaintance, an old humpty-dump of his.