Page 92 of There is No Devil

I keep waiting for guilt to overwhelm me.

The people Cole killed before were faceless avatars to me. I never met any of them. Most seemed to deserve what they got.

Randall is different.

I knew him. We sat at the same table. Ate the same food. I knew his favorite sports teams, the names of his sons. Which movies he liked, and even what he sounded like grunting and puffing as he fucked my mother.

I hated the intimacy between us, but it was there. I knew him as human, as a man.

And I watched him die.

Should I be sorry for him?

I felt some pity last night, in the moment. Seeing his graying hair and his wretched begging.

But because I know Randall, I’m well aware how little goodness lived inside of him. I can’t remember a single instance of kindness to me. Not one, not even when I was very small. Whatever he gave, he gave grudgingly. Angrily. Always rubbing it in my face afterward, lording it over me.

He was a petty tyrant.

Does anyone care when the tyrant’s head is put on a spike on the city gates?

Does anyone shed a tear?

I’m certainly not crying.

In fact, as I rise from the bed, I feel clean and whole. A little bit lighter, as if I shed off a weight I didn’t even know I was carrying.

I float out of the room and down the stairs, looking for Cole.

I find him down in the kitchen, readying his customary breakfast.

It’s nice starting the day with the same meal every morning. Knowing that you have control over the day ahead.

He passes me my latte, fresh and flawlessly prepared. Cole would never slap milk and coffee into a cup. Whatever is worth doing, is worth doing well. He perfects his art, even when that art is only a latte.

I sip my drink, naked under my silk robe. Feeling the fabric against my skin, and the clear morning light streaming in through the windows.

Cole stands behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, damp waves of hair neatly combed back.

He looks like a man ready to work.

I say, “If we’re really going to do this, then you’re right, I have to be prepared. Tell me everything. Tell me how you met Shaw.”

* * *

16

Cole

Iknew I had to explain all this to Mara, but I’ve been dreading it.

I don’t often feel regret. In fact, one of the few times I’ve ever felt it is the night I fucked up with Mara and she left the party with someone else.

I didn’t use to regret anything about Shaw.

Now … I wish I had done things differently.

I look out the kitchen window to the bright, sparkling waters of the bay, not watching the boats drifting past, but instead visualizing the flat green lawns and low modern buildings of the California Institute of the Arts.

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