‘That’s why you raped them all, right? Because you loved it.’

‘How the fuck can you know anything about anything?’

‘I heard the tapes, David. I know you enjoyed it.’

‘It’s so simple for you, isn’t it?’ he says, and here is the calm David again. And perhaps the real one lives in both worlds, Good and Bad, Light and Dark, a man who balances his life between

creating an illusion and playing a monster. ‘Its simple to stand up there and look down on me, judging me, because you’re not the

one with a head full of disgusting memories, you’re not the one who …’

‘You’re a sick fucker who acted out,’ I say. ‘That’s the bit I understand. Rachel didn’t deserve what you did to her, not by any means, but I can at least figure out why. What I can’t figure out is why the others) Why kill them?’

‘Why the fuck not?’

He reaches his hand out to the ground above the grave and I

step towards it. He pulls it away without the need for me to crush his fingers.

‘When you were here two years ago for Rachel’s grandmother’s

funeral, what happened? Who spoke to her?’

‘It wasn’t her.’

‘Somebody spoke to you? Was it Sidney Alderman?’

‘Just some old drunk who smelled like he hadn’t showered in

about a month. I told him to fuck off. You want to know what

he told me?’

‘What?’

‘He said, “How does it feel fucking your sister, David? Is she juicy?” I pushed him away and he just laughed at me, like he was somehow proud of it. I took a swing at him and knocked him to

the ground. He stopped laughing then, but he wasn’t finished.

He said, “Do you know who your dad is? Do you know who her

dad is? Look it up, boy, look it up. And do something about it.”

I walked away from the guy, but his words, man, they just kept following me. It wasn’t because the guy knew who I was, it was something else. I found out the following day who my father

was.’

“Henry Martins told you.’

He starts to laugh. ‘That old fucker was just as bad as the

others. He told me all about Father Julian, and told me I wasn’t the only one. That fucking priest had been sleeping with his

parishioners for years. I asked him about Patricia Tyler. He knew, man! He fucking knew her. I went back to the cemetery. Bruce

was my brother. The old man, he was fucked up with drink, but

Bruce was okay. A bit nervous, but okay. And the closest thing I had to family.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘You’re kidding, right? If she hadn’t been fucking around back then, none of this would have happened. I’d have had a normal

life.’

‘You wouldn’t have even existed.’

He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter.

‘When you were alone at the funeral, how did Sidney Alderman

know who you were?’

“How the fuck do I know? I guess he recognised my mother,

and later I had all the proof I needed.’

‘You told Rachel who her dad was, and took her to see him,

didn’t you.’

‘She confronted him and he admitted it. I waited outside for

her. When she told me, I felt like I’d been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. I dropped to my knees and just threw up.

When she tried to comfort me I pulled away. I didn’t want to be anywhere near her. I told her to leave me alone, but she wanted to talk. Thing is, she couldn’t when I had my hands crushing her throat. The life had gone out of her, and still I couldn’t let go. You probably think that’s bullshit. You think that it was my plan to kill her if that old drunk was right about what he said, but it wasn’t.

There was no plan. Jesus, we were still in the cemetery when it happened. I could even see the church.’

The rain is starting to get heavier and I wonder if it’s pooling inside the coffin or soaking into the wood. I have both hands

jammed in my pockets—my right one is starting to throb painfully — so I start pacing around the grave. David keeps turning in the coffin so he can keep looking up at me.

And the others?’ I ask.

‘What about them?’

‘Why’d you kill them?’

‘They were my sisters. I figured if it could happen once, it

could happen again.’

‘You’re full of shit. You’d already killed Henry Martins, which means you already knew the truth before driving Rachel to speak to Father Julian. That means you thought about it pretty hard

for a couple of days. It means the knowledge of you being with your sister grew like a cancer inside your brain and the only way you could cut it out was to kill Rachel. You took her to see Father Julian knowing that she wouldn’t be seeing anybody else ever

again afterwards. Once you knew who those other girls were,

there was no chance of accidentally dating one of them. You

were killing them because you enjoyed it. What about the girl

tonight? She’s not even one of your sisters, is she? You just can’t stop yourself.’

He shrugs. ‘So what does it matter?’

‘Because you were talking to her like she was. It just goes to show how fucked in the head you really are. But why me? Why

try and frame me for Father Julian?’

‘You killed my brother.’

‘He killed himself.’

I think about Patricia Tyler’s last words to me, the promise

she wanted me to make. The last month has been full of broken

promises. I think of the man I once was, the man I became when I was drinking, the man in between, and the man I am now.

Which one of them is the real me? I could keep talking until the police arrive, or take him into the station myself. That would earn me some credit. They’ll lock David up and there’s enough

evidence to put him away for a long time, but a long time in this justice system is only ten years. Is that really justice? He won’t even be thirty-five when he comes out. I doubt that would sound like justice to any of the girls. Or to Patricia Tyler. Can this sick kid be redeemed in ten years? Is redemption even possible?

‘We’re going to the police,’ I say.

‘Fuck that.’

‘It’s the only option.’

He goes quiet as he thinks about it. ‘Okay but you’re going to have to help me out of here. My arm’s broken.’

‘Don’t try anything.’

‘I won’t.’

I close my eyes. I think of Emily. I think of all the dead girls.

I think of a promise I made. I crouch down and lower my hand.

He grabs it and pulls me down, and I fall, just as I have been falling since the day I drove Quentin James out into the woods.

I let it happen, and I knew it would happen, and when I land on top of him my face doesn’t register the surprise he was hoping to see. His plan, his only plan, to pull me in and crack my head into the coffin or break my neck, hasn’t worked. He can see that now, and he can see his mistake.

The blood floods out over my hand. It’s warm and sticky and

thick, and I hate the feel of it. When I pull it away from him, I leave the pocketknife I took from his car in his chest. He reaches down to it and pulls it out as if he’s just been stung by something, then looks at it as if he has no idea what it is. He stares at me, his face pale and streaked with blood and tears. His mouth opens and closes, but he can’t say anything; his mouth forms an O but nothing comes out. This lonely boy who learned who he was and

made the rest of the world pay for it. He breathes heavily until the breaths become softer and softer. The knife falls from his hand.

He sinks back down as he dies in front of me. I wipe my hand

across the soggy lining of the coffin before pulling myself out.

I sit on the ground and lean against the gravestone, and I watch the sky, looking for a break in the clouds, hoping for a break in the rain, wishing more than anything that I could have a drink right about now.

I’m not sure how much time passes before the police arrive,

but I’m still sitting here when they do. Three days sober, and more positive than ever that I now know exactly who I am.