I know what I gotta do tonight, and it has me all pissed off. The pretty cop lady is gonna come back. She has that look about her. A dog with a bone. And the guys at the garage are gonna come over, too. Except they’re gonna bring baseball bats, and rolls of quarters in their fists. They got that look about them, too—you know, the overexcited drool of muscle heads armed with pitchforks.

Even Wendell called me this afternoon, the fucking flasher from group therapy. None of us is supposed to have each other’s personal info, but Wendell no doubt bribed some flunky just so he could grill me for the inside skinny. He’d watched the press conference on the missing woman and wanted to hear all about it. Not that he thought I was innocent, mind you. Not that he was calling to offer support. No, he wanted details. Exactly what Sandra Jones looked like, exactly what she sounded like, exactly what she felt like when I squeezed out her last breath. Wendell has no doubt that I killed her. And he doesn’t care. He just wants me to share the glory so he has something fresh to fantasize about while whacking off.

Everyone’s got an opinion about me, and I’m just plain fucking sick of it.

So I hit the liquor store. Screw my probation. I’m already gonna get arrested and I haven’t done anything wrong. So following the time-honored tradition that I might as well commit the crime, since apparently I’m serving the time, I’m getting liquored up. No beer for me. I’m gonna do this the right away.

Maker’s Mark whiskey. That’s what my stepdad always bought. I used it the first night I seduced Rachel. Poured us giant shots mixed with lemonade. What are a couple bored kids gonna do after school but steal from the liquor cabinet?

I buy two bottles, practically jogging all the way home, because now that I’ve decided to be bad, I don’t want to waste a moment of it. I crack open the first liter, drinking straight from the bottle. One sip down, I nearly cough up a lung. I’ve never been a big drinker, not even as a teenage slacker. I’ve forgotten just how badly whiskey can burn.

“Jesus Christ!” I gasp. But I keep at it. Oh, I keep at it.

Half a dozen swigs later, my belly is nice and warm and I already feel calmer, loose even. Perfect for what I gotta do next.

I go into my closet. Cast off all my clothes, and there it is. A giant metal locker. The object I’m pretty sure Officer Blondie found earlier and now wants to ask me lots of questions about. Let her. Just let her.