Page 36 of Eternally Devoted

And my family.

And these guys.

But I am not crazy.

After telling them how Jeffrey Morgan put his hands on me at the King Dum—a dumpling place in Oakcreek where I started meeting my internet dates—I recounted how even though I’d never once said yes, he never once stopped when I said no.

I told them that the chipper had been acting up, and I knew under the oak tree wouldn’t work so I put his remains in the old well near the edge of my property line. There hasn’t been water in it for years, and no one goes out there since the land is dry and infertile. But it’s far and even dead men are heavy, so I only used the well once.

I tell them about the next guy in detail.

I explain to the men that Stanley was a child rapist I’d seen on the news. I remember his story vividly, because the children he assaulted were so young, around age five or so. I thought of Bear, and I thought of that man putting his filthy, sick hands all over him. And if God or the universe doesn’t want me to be bad, then why on his green earth did Stanley Eugene Cutler move to Bluebell, California, where I reside?

Divine intervention works in mysterious ways I think.

I followed Cutler and waited until he went to the hardware store, and I asked him out. He said yes, so I followed him home, fed him jam and as soon as he became paralyzed, I smothered him to death with the stacks of newspapers I found in his home.

They were papers that featured his victims. He’d bought them as trophies.

It only seemed fitting that his throat would be full of their stories as he took his final breath. Fair is fair.

“Stanley Eugene Cutler,” Dash recites the name of my fourth victim back to me, “he fucked up by choosing Bluebell,” he finishes, rounding off that thought as if he sees it completelyfrom my perspective, leaving me with no nagging feeling to defend my actions.

Sterling scoffs. “Anyone who regularly goes by their three full names is usually a serial killer or a child molester, so that tracks.” He lifts his brows as he bobs his head, the fire licking at his silhouette, leaving traces of dark where details normally are. Sterling looks good by the fire. But then again, so does Dash.

“He deserved it,” Dash says, getting to his feet to grab us each a can of soda from the fridge. We’ve moved past tea and pie to Coke and popcorn. Recounting terrible men and their egregious acts makes you thirsty, apparently.

“And he was chipped?” Sterling asks, his eyes narrowed as if he’s taking mental notes of everything I’m saying. “I fixed the chipper not long after it broke.”

I nod. “Yes. I chipped him but I took him to the Bluebell-Oakcreek town line, out in the country.” I may or may not have just seenThe Shawshank Redemptionrerun on cable a few days before, and the thought of Red leaving something for Andy buried in a special spot resonated with me.

“I guess what I’m wondering now,” Sterling says, opening the can of soda Dash brought him. “Is how much paralytic did you get from the vet? At some point, Hudson had to realize he didn’t have it and pick more up, right?”

There’s a sore spot on the inside of my cheek from chewing it. There are parts of this story that I genuinely feel bad about, which I know is ironic because,hello, murder. Ishouldfeel bad about all of it, in theory. But I don’t.

The world needs less assholes.

I do, however, feel bad about robbing the Bluebell Veterinary Clinic. Poor Dr. Jones. “I was running out, yeah, and yeah, Hudson eventually started picking up his own stuff because… obviously.”

My gaze moves between Sterling and Dash for a moment as I search for the words to explain. I want to make them understand that I only used Dr. Jones because I felt I had to, not because that’s who I am. But Dash figures me out before I say a word.

“Derek Jones was your ticket to more paralytic and tranquilizers, wasn’t he?” Dash doesn’t drink his Coke, only holds it between his hands as he stares at me in the dim light of my living room.

I nod, swiping a tear that sneaks out. I have no right to cry. I’m the bad girl here. Still, I do feel bad.

“We got drunk at the bowling alley, and then I asked him for an after-hours tour of the clinic. He was drunk enough to say yes, and drunk enough that he didn’t notice I snagged his keys.” I glance over to the cupboard below the TV, where a normal person keeps DVDs and old VHS tapes.

“The rest is there. I’m running low.”

Sterling’s eyes come to mine, and I’m relieved to find they are free of judgment. “He had to know it was you that took them.”

I roll my lips together. “Well, around that time, Ink Time was nearly robbed. That was all over the Bluebell papers. I gaslighted him into thinking that they must've robbed him before they were unsuccessful at Ink Time.”

“He bought that?” Sterling asks incredulously.

I nod. “Yeah, he did.”

Dash rolls his eyes.

---