The Guilty - Jason Pinter [66]
and then they pressed against mine, hot and needy.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
My body went rigid. I pried myself from Mya's grip. Her
hands slid off me. She'd heard the voice, too. I was afraid to
turn around, but I had to.
Amanda was standing on the corner. Watching us. A bag
of groceries lay at her feet. Where she'd dropped them.
"No. No, no, no no no. You have got to be fucking
joking," she said. She left the groceries and started toward
us with a frightening urgency. I tried to open my mouth but
nothing came out.
The Guilty
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"Amanda," I said. It's not what it looks like. I can
explain. Of course I would say those things. Isn't that what
every guy said?
"You goddamn whore, " Amanda spat. "You drag him through
your filth and then you come to our house to spread it around?
Get the fuck out of here, you disgusting tramp." Mya took a step
toward Amanda, like she might do or say something, but then
she turned and ran away. I turned back to Amanda.
"Wait," I said.
"So was she wearing perfume?" Amanda asked, her eyes
wild, searching for some crazy answer. "Tell me she drugged
you, that she had a gun, that she's the lunatic who's killing
all those people and offered to sleep with you for the scoop.
Tell me something other than you were just standing here
playing tonsil hockey with the girl who dragged your name
through the mud. Tell me there's more to it."
"Her father was killed," I said. "I didn't know what to do."
"No, you knew what to do. You decided to be hero Henry
fucking Parker and swoop in for the rescue. Is that your M.O.
now? You find these damaged girls and pretend to be their
savior until the next basket case comes along? Is that what
you did with me? You were tired of Mya so when I happened
by you figured you'd take my broken ass for a spin?"
"It's not like that and you know it. I love you, Amanda."
"Then why were you kissing another fucking girl? " she
shouted.
"I didn't...I...she held me," I said, realizing how lame it
sounded as soon as the words came out of my mouth.
Amanda looked back at the groceries. "There's your
dinner," she said. "Cook it yourself. Burn the apartment down.
I'm going to stay at the office tonight." She turned and started
to walk away.
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"Amanda," I said, following her. My head was spinning, my
heart felt like it was about to burst. This couldn't be happening.
"If you follow me I'll call the cops and tell them Mya's
girlfriend-beating ex is coming after me." I stopped in my
tracks, blinking rapidly. "Try me," she said. "I swear I'll do
it."
Then her hand was in the air. A cab chugged up to the
curb. I could feel the eyes of a dozen strangers watching the
scene unfold. I watched as Amanda got into a cab, fleeing
in a cloud of exhaust, leaving me alone on the street with a
bagful of groceries.
30
I stood on the street corner. My feet tapped involuntarily.
My brain was running on about four gallons of caffeine,
half of which probably hadn't even entered my bloodstream
and would cause my eyes to pop out of their sockets any
minute now.
I didn't sleep last night. I watched Amanda's cab drive off,
picked up the discarded groceries, put them away neatly. I
called Amanda. She told me not to call again. I didn't. Instead
I took a cab to her office, saw the light on, and stood outside
all night just to make sure she was safe. She didn't need to
know I was there. But I did.
The next morning I decided to visit Agnes Trimble.
It was 8:45 a.m. I'd already plowed through the Gazette
and the Dispatch. A reporter had written an article about the
growing public sentiment that the killer might have done a
public service by killing four people. Tomorrow more ghouls
would come out of the woodwork and celebrate this murderer,
and soon it would cross over from print to radio to television.
Four lives were being trivialized, and a killer was being glorified. Undoubtedly reporters would eat each other to get the
first scoop, pay loads of money to interview this beast.
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