Page 62 of Toxic

None of it mattered. It was a brouhaha full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Indeed.

What mattered was that Steve was dead, and along with him being gone was also the hope he’d ever reenter Connor’s life. Gone was the goal of remaking the family they’d once had together.

And he was to blame. He didn’t wield the knife, of course. But for Connor’s own actions, Steve would still be alive. He couldn’t elude responsibility and crushing guilt.

Connor unfolded the letter in his lap. He’d told no one about it, not even Miranda. Trey had left it the day he’d discovered that Miranda and thus Connor were on to him, when his lies all were brought out from under the rock under which they’d been hiding.

Even though it was too dark to make out the words scrawled on a sheet of torn-out notepad paper, Connor remembered them by heart, where they were now indelibly seared.

Connor,

You think you know me.

You don’t.

If you knew me, you’d realize that I’ve loved you for a very long time. I’ve loved you since I picked up your first book,A Death in Venice Beach. I read every book after that from you. I begged my friends to read you. I posted amazing reviews to urge people to buy your books.

The success you enjoy today is from me, if you really want to know the truth. I was that number one fan who gleefully told everyone he knew about you and your amazing work. And I’m repaid with misery!

When we connected online, it was a miracle for me to discover that Alfred Knox was you! It was like some MGM feature-film romance dream come true. I couldn’t believe it. I walked around dazed and infatuated, hardly able to believe my good fortune.

I really thought you were a literal gift from god.

Yes, Connor, I’ve been a bad man. I don’t deny it. A grifter, some would call me. A scammer, others might say. A con man who preys on wealthy gay men. Catfisher. Liar. Loser.

You know it’s true. You’ve seen my arrest records. You’ve seen copies of the restraining orders. You’ve held in your hands all the cold and clinical proof of my misdeeds. They made you hate me. But no hate can ever equal the loathing I have for myself.

Yet I wonder: Did you ever take a moment to try to understand me? To really know who I am and why I am?

No.

You want perfection. You want to edit your life as your books are edited. Free of mistakes or lapses in logic or continuity.

Life is messier than that, Connor.

You, a believer in dreams and made-up lives, couldn’t conceive that there might be someone who was wrong but could be redeemed through love.

Yourlove.

When we decided to marry that magical weekend on Orcas Island, I really believed my past was behind me. Next to you, I could be whole again, my broken self repaired and ready to start anew.

I had no idea you didn’t trust me.

I had no idea what you and your cunt daughter were doing behind my back.

I had no idea your love for Steve, that gullible buffoon—so inferior to me in every way—was still alive when you vowed to put ME before all others.

Yes, I was enraged when I saw, on your dining room table, that red file that contained all those misunderstood missteps I’ve taken.

Red is the right color for that file for so many reasons.

Red is the color of my rage.

Red is the color of blood, as it spurts from a throat.

See, one lesson I learned along the way was this:

Don’t hurt the one who wronged you.

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