But his kids. He had his kids. They were the totem, the charm. Something his and not his—something all their own—which was what made having them so meaningful. Something to die for in a life, a world, where sacrifices had evaporated into commercial chatter.

Above, Frankie kicked and rolled in his sleep. Bart's tail thumped the mattress four times. Thomas smiled, thinking of their exultant faces when they found him in the morning. Here. Between them.

Daddeeeeee!

So long as he had them, he would never be alone.

Two strangers in a driveway, only one pretending to he human.

'My mother,' you say.

'What about her?'

'She's always telling me not to do things like this.'

People like you don't believe in people like me. Not on this side of the glass.

'I'll stay here, then. Really, it's no problem.'

'And what, bleed all over the sidewalk? Come come, don't be silly.'

I smile, neglect to tell you the blood isn't mine.

Instead I say, 'I feel so stupid.'

When you turn to lead the way, my eyes make maps of what comes next. You even hold open the door, such an eager, illustrated cow.

'You should know,' I say in a carefree-friendly way, 'I only fuck the meat.'

And now look at you.

I mean, I hate you, and at the same time, I really don't care. I think of Dahmer opening his fridge, arranging the baking soda just so. It's no longer a mystery to me, how he felt, what he thought, cataloguing his milk-cold trophies. I know he saw the horror the same as I do. He saw you, the same as me, and some part of him recoiled, rolled knees to chest in remorse. Part of him cried, What-have-I-done-what-have-I-done…

But you see, he just

didn't

care.

You were everything. Squirming, screaming, the human cut from the animal, the animal battered into the doll. You were everything that mattered. The spit of taste, the tingle of touch, the spark of sight, curved hot against his belly. The one true thing.

And he didn't care.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

August 18th, 8.39 a.m.

'So it must be strange knowing people the way you do.'