Chapters (65)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty–one
- Twenty–two
- Twenty–three
- Twenty–four
- Twenty–five
- Twenty–six
- Twenty–seven
- Twenty–eight
- Twenty–nine
- Thirty
- Thirty–one
- Thirty–two
- Thirty–three
- Thirty–four
- Thirty–five
- Thirty–six
- Thirty–seven
- Thirty–eight
- Thirty–nine
- Forty
- Forty–one
- Forty–two
- Forty–three
- Forty–four
- Forty–five
- Forty–six
- Forty–seven
- Forty–eight
- Forty–nine
- Fifty
- Fifty–one
- Fifty–two
- Fifty–three
- Fifty–four
- Fifty–five
- Fifty–six
- Fifty–seven
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- Also by Becky Masterman
- About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
Nine months ago she had come from Florida after her mother died from a long illness, and moved in with us to establish Arizona residency prior to starting at the state university. Bad things ensued. The funny thing was, I discovered Gemma-Kate wasn’t gratuitously evil, not like a serial killer or anything; she just didn’t have the empathy or moral imperatives the rest of us have. She has always maintained that poisoning one of our pugs was only an accident.
She said.
This was Gemma-Kate’s psyche, while sporting a petite physique that had spring breakers in Fort Lauderdale risking statutory rape when she was fourteen, short curly blond hair, and a roundedness about all her features that made her appear as threatening as Betty Boop.
Maybe I know her because, as may be apparent from my remark about the little thrill I’ve experienced watching bad guys suffer, I tip a smidgen to the left of the empathy spectrum myself.
“Listen,” she said, “I’ve been forced to take a humanities class, so I signed up for something called Oral History. I have to interview someone old by next week.”
“I’m not that old,” I said.
“Oh, come on,” she said.
“No. You already know everything about me that can be known. I’m not telling you the rest.”
“But I don’t have that much time and I don’t know any other old people in Tucson.”
“You are not endearing yourself to me.”
“I’ll cook dinner,” she said.
This gave me pause. During the time she had lived with us I discovered Gemma-Kate had become a gourmet cook while taking care of her sick mother.
Seeing that she had me now, she said, “So, yes. I have a biochemistry class to get to.”
“What about Carlo?” I asked. “Interview Carlo.”
“Why?”
“Ex-Catholic priest, could be a good story in there for you.” Frankly, I didn’t think there would be anything to interest her, but it was a good way to skirt talking to her myself and still get dinner.
“Was he a priest when he met his first wife?” she asked.
After hesitating a moment, “I’m not sure” slipped out of my mouth. Why did I not know this? I thought.
Whether or not she heard that hesitancy in my voice, whether it intrigued her, I couldn’t tell. What I could tell is that she felt she had sucked all the value out of this conversation and grown bored. She agreed to interview him.
Then we hung up and I forgot about Gemma-Kate and picked up the latest issue of Cooking Light, telling myself I wasn’t competing with a dead wife. Of course not. I was too mature and worldly-wise for that.