I listened to you upstairs, doing bedtime with the girls. It was kind of touching, and I mean that. You probably thought you would be the last one to tuck them in, but you weren’t.

Later, when everyone was asleep, I watched each of those girls in her bed, breathing so peacefully. They were like little angels with no cares in the world.

I didn’t have to tell them they had nothing to worry about, because they already knew. It was just the opposite for you. I decided to wait until the morning, so that I could be with you alone, Madam Director.

I’m really glad I waited, too. Your husband, Michael, took the girls to school today. His turn, I guess. That was lucky for everyone, but especially for him. He got to live, and you didn’t have to watch him die. And I got you the way I wanted, just the way I had imagined it for such a long time.

Here’s what happened next, Marti.

Your last morning started like any other. You did your precious Pilates and then went for laps in the pool. Fifty laps, just like always. It must be nice to have such a big swimming pool. Heated, too. I stood and watched you gliding back and forth in the sparkling blue water. Even there, so close, it took you forever to see me.

When you finally looked up, you must have been good and tired. Too tired to scream I suppose. All you did was turn away, but it didn’t stop me from shooting you. Or then cutting your pretty face to ribbons and shreds.

Tell you what, Marti, that was the best part of all. I’m starting to really like defacement.

Now, let me ask one final question—do you know why you had to die? Do you know what you did to deserve this? Do you know, Marti, do you know?

Somehow, I doubt it.

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

BUT THAT WASN’T EXACTLY the way it happened, the Storyteller knew.

Of course, he wasn’t going to tell the L.A. Times and the police everything, only what he needed them to know, only what was in the story he wanted them to help authenticate.

It was such a good story, a helluva story if he didn’t say so himself. Mary Smith! Jesus. A classic horror tale if ever there was one.

Speaking of stories, he’d heard a good one the other day—the “psychopath’s test.” It was supposed to tell you if you had the mind of a psycho. If you got it right, you did. The story went like this. At her mother’s funeral, a woman met this guy and fell instantly in love. But she never got his name, number, or anything about him. A few days later, the woman killed her sister.