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Back We Were Killers Once Save as PDF
Chapters (65)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty–one
  25. Twenty–two
  26. Twenty–three
  27. Twenty–four
  28. Twenty–five
  29. Twenty–six
  30. Twenty–seven
  31. Twenty–eight
  32. Twenty–nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty–one
  35. Thirty–two
  36. Thirty–three
  37. Thirty–four
  38. Thirty–five
  39. Thirty–six
  40. Thirty–seven
  41. Thirty–eight
  42. Thirty–nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty–one
  45. Forty–two
  46. Forty–three
  47. Forty–four
  48. Forty–five
  49. Forty–six
  50. Forty–seven
  51. Forty–eight
  52. Forty–nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty–one
  55. Fifty–two
  56. Fifty–three
  57. Fifty–four
  58. Fifty–five
  59. Fifty–six
  60. Fifty–seven
  61. Author’s Note
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. Also by Becky Masterman
  64. About the Author
  65. Newsletter Sign-up

“Vic didn’t own much. Vow of poverty and all that. Maybe this was all he had to give. He said he was giving this sketch to me as a symbol of his trust that I was an honorable man.” Carlo hung his head a bit and shook it. “He was wrong about that, about my being honorable.” Carlo’s face took on an expression that was at odds with his general placid philosophical bent. You could tell there was a hurt that would last forever. He said, “That crisis of faith that I told you about, that made me leave the priesthood, it doesn’t gnaw at me in the way of some grievous sin, but it’s still a failure. You see, Brigid,” and I knew this was serious because he used my name, “it was all about Jane.”

My thoughts had been rushing hither and yon while we were talking, but now they lighted on what Carlo had said a minute before, about not being so interested in a fifteen-year-old case because he was only caring about Jane. I suddenly remembered the night I sat listening to my dad’s friends talk about the Walker murders, how I wanted to say stop talking, but could not. We don’t change much.

“This is going to be about sex, isn’t it?” I said sweetly, feeling my face turn a lovely shade of green.

Thirty–six

Just as lightly, not suspecting that I really cared, Carlo said, “Isn’t it always?”

I felt my chest rise and fall more rapidly with what I might be about to hear. But hadn’t Carlo listened to everything about my past that I was willing, that I needed, to share, no matter how gruesome? There were likely pictures in his head that would never leave. I had to be willing to carry the same kind of pictures, though in his case I imagined they would be lovely, lovelier than any he had about me. In at least two cases, pictures of me included blood. I suppose this is what they mean when they talk about a late marriage and the baggage that comes with it.

The picture of wedding rings in a bedside table drifted into my mind again. “This story seems important,” I said, using a blander statement than the accusatory Why haven’t you told me this story? It struck me that I hadn’t realized I’d been anticipating it these past two years, like waiting for what comes after “shave and a haircut.” There was something big to know, and those rings were confirmation. “So tell me.”

He shook his head, and examined my face the way he does, and seeing what I didn’t want him to see, said, “I’ve never told you this story because it wasn’t mine to tell. Jane got into some trouble, so it’s her story. Telling it to you feels … it feels disloyal.”