Page 13 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

“So, for the first episode I thought we’d start with a cottagecore aesthetic to reflect this glamorous woman’s not-so-glamorous beginnings. We’re channeling Dorothy in old-timey Kansas, Alexis Bledel inTuck Everlasting, and the girl in your high school who might have been in a cult. I’ve chosen an O Pioneers floral dress and toughened it up with some lace-up boots just in case I have to do any farmwork. Which would be surprising. . . since I live in Brooklyn. I’m pairing it with a Lack of Colors sunhat to keep out that harsh midwestern sun and, you know, thedust. . .”

Chapter Seven

It was a beautiful, breezy morning and Ruth was sitting in The Long Bean, her favorite coffee shop, trying to remedy another sleep-deprived night with caffeine. Ruth had always had problems sleeping. She used to think it was the shitty couches she slept on as a child, but lately it seemed like every time she went to sleep, she remembered the past. Her mom. Her dad. Her time in college. The moments in her life when everything seemed to be on a smooth trajectory, just before it all went wrong again.

Last night she had tossed and turned, running through Daphne’s story of the preacher, trying to understand how a victim made the transition to victimizer, whether it was an incremental process or whether it happened all at once. It was just another dark thought that Ruth’s antidepressants couldn’t quite touch.

But in the light of day, even if glimpsed through bloodshot eyes, Ruth could see that good things were beginning. Within the first two days, Ruth’s podcast had over ten thousand listens, which put her in the top 0.05 percent of podcasts. It was at the top of the true crime charts and was being recommended by everyone fromEntertainment Weeklyto your aunt’s book club. Her inbox was already filling with an endless stream of messages from prospective agents, managers, and book publishers. They all knew that Ruth had something unique: the scoop of the decade, and they all wanted a piece.

But interviewing Daphne washard work. She went off-topic a lot, turned the questions back on Ruth, and constantly swerved memories that made her seem vulnerable. And yet there was something so relatable about Daphne. Ruth knew what it was like to be poor, and angry, and frustrated. To feel like the whole world was lined up against you. Sure, she’d never worn a flour sack as a top, but in seventh grade, Katie Weir had asked why Ruth wore the same three shirts to school, over and over and whether she owned any other clothes. Ruth needed to maintain a journalistic distance, but it was difficult to sit there day after day, hearing someone’s life story, and not feel a connection.

“Ruth Robinson?” Ruth looked up and there, standing in front of her in a white tennis dress and designer sneakers was a blast from the past. And not a welcome one.

Erin Demarco. Ruth had gone to college with her. For four years they had existed in constant proximity to each other: in the dorm, in journalism classes, at the college paper, without ever enjoying each other’s company. They had friends in common, close friends in fact, but Erin and Ruth were just too different. Erin had a dermatologist on speed dial whereas Ruth had bought a case of facewash at a fire sale. After college, Erin had parlayed the generational wealth that she had always flaunted into a string of internships in New York, subsidized by her parents and then onwards to a job atVanity Fair.

It didn’t help that Erin was also kind of a bitch.

“That’s me,” Ruth said, making a little salute (Why, God, why did she do that?) and smiling.

“God, it’s been so long, but you look the same! Well, same clothes anyways! You probably couldn’t pass for twenty-one anymore!” Erin said with a laugh, smoothing her glossy walnut hair.

“Are you living in Florida again?” Ruth asked, determined to move this conversation along.

“Just home for a break. I’ve been so busy recently. The Hollywood Issue’s coming out soon. . .” Erin trailed off. She looked at Ruth expectantly, as if Ruth was going to badger her for some gossipy details.

Ruth refused to take the bait. “Hollywood Issue of what?”

“Vanity Fair! And of course, then we need to think about Oscars season and the after-party. . . so much to do! And what are you doing with your life? Still delivering packages for Amazon?” Erin asked.

Ruth rolled her eyes. She hadn’t done that in years. The noble profession of writing articles about plastic surgery fails had replaced delivery driving.

“I’m doing a podcast right now.The Murders of Daphne St Clair? I’m interviewing Daphne, getting her life story down and sharing detailed confessions about her crimes.”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard of it,” Erin said, but her lack of eye contact told a different story. Erin pasted a sappy, concerned look on her face. “I’m surprised you, of all people, would be doing true crime? Isn’t that uncomfortable for you?”

“Is having the number-one true crime podcast in the country uncomfortable for me? Yeah, I think somehow, I’ll manage,” Ruth scoffed, pointedly ignoring Erin’s little digs.

“Yes, well, I suppose it’s just a podcast,” Erin said, her delicate pout emphasizing the ‘just.’ Erin seemed to consider saying something more before thinking better of it.

“One of the fastest growing forms of media. But uh, how’s the magazine industry doing?” Ruth asked, fully aware that they were swiftly moving out of passive-aggressive territory and into pure aggression.

“Well, I should go but good luck with the whole podcast thing. I think it’s a bit crass to romanticize a serial killer but if you don’t have a problem with that, kudos!”

“Well, actually—” Ruth began but she was already out the door. She might not have had the last word, but Ruth had seen Erin’s flinch of recognition at the name of the podcast. And there was nothing more satisfying than the knowledge that Erin Demarco was jealous of her.

And she hadn’t seen anything yet.

Chapter Eight

Ruth’s phone rang as she was parking her car at Coconut Grove. It wasn’t a number she recognized but she answered, in case it might be someone calling her about Daphne.

“Hi, Ruth, it’s Officer Rankin. I don’t know if you remember me. . . It’s been a while.”

“Yes, I remember you,” Ruth said, gripping her steering wheel. She had already rolled her windows up and so she sat in the stuffy car, feeling the heat rising around her, as if she were a lobster in water slowly being brought to a boil.

“You’re probably surprised to hear from me,” he said with a chuckle, as if the idea of Ruth being caught off guard made him smile.

“Uh, yes, I am,” Ruth said curtly. In fact, she’d been hoping to never hear from Officer Rankin again. Or any of the Palm Haven police, really.

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