Page 37 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

“Oh, you know, it’s mostly guys. Richard Ramirez and Ted Bundy, people like that.”

“I never saw the appeal of Ted Bundy,” I said. “People always say how handsome he was but one look at those bugged-out eyes and you can tell he was crazier than a shithouse rat.”

Harper laughed. I rolled my eyes.

“I think you should stay off those sites. It’ll rot your brain.”

“But what if one day I grow up and become a homicide detective and solve a bunch of crimes because of the stuff I’m learning now?” Harper asked. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. That kid loved to stir the pot.

“Oh, like all the clever detectives who caught me? Don’t waste your time. Get a job that makes you a lot of money but gives you weekends off. That’s the ticket,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Be a dentist. Or, if you really want to work in crime, start a crime-scene cleanup business. I saw a TV show about them once. They make a lot of money cleaning up murder scenes and meth labs.”

“Isn’t that kind of disgusting?” Harper asked.

“Sure, it is. And so is renting porta-potties to music festivals, but I bet those guys make a lot too. You can become rich and powerful if you’re willing to do something that most people won’t do. That’s the secret, Harper,” I said, tapping my forehead even though she couldn’t see the gesture.

“Like murder?” she asked slyly.

“Don’t be a smartass,” I said.

“So, what’s with the curtains?” Ruth asked Daphne. “It’s a beautiful day, why do you have them closed all the time?”

They usually had a few minutes of small talk before they launched into the interview, a chance to get used to each other before the recording started. Daphne usually used this time to criticize her outfit. Today she’d taken one look at Ruth’s T-shirt, which had been washed so many times it was almost transparent, and said that Ruth’s clothing reminded her of the drifters who rode the rails in the Depression.

“It’s always a sunny day in Florida,” Daphne scoffed. “But, well. . . the staff have asked me to keep my curtains shut because someone might be trying to find me.”

“Find you? What do you mean?” Ruth asked, feeling her stomach clench. She stared at the blocks of shadow that the curtains made, with the warm sun, as yellow as egg yolk, seeping around the sides.

Were there others like her? Others who wanted justice for their unsolved murders but who didn’t have the access she did? Or were they after something far darker? Ruth could understand the impulse. It was hard, sitting here day after day, watching Daphne crow about the men she’d killed, especially as the offenses that earned them a death sentence were getting increasingly hard to justify. Ruth’s sleep was getting more fractured and her stomach seemed to be permanently roiling. But she had to keep it together no matter the cost, had to hold on until they got to the right time, the right man, the right murder.

“Some kind of private investigator, or a man pretending to be a PI. I don’t know, they think he might be dangerous, so they’re keeping me under lock and key.”

“Strange how everyone’s trying to protect a serial killer from the public,” Ruth said wryly, trying to keep her face neutral.

“Yeah, life’s a hoot. So. . . do people ever askyouwhat it’s like interviewing a killer?” Daphne asked.

“All the time,” Ruth said, clenching her hands, feeling them ache from the stress of countless hours at the computer.

“And what do you tell them?” Daphne asked, her eyes pinning Ruth down like a butterfly on a specimen board. Ruth didn’t like the predatory gleam in Daphne’s eyes, as if Daphne had remembered that at ninety years old, she was still capable of being very dangerous.

“Well, I say that you’re interesting to talk to. . . I meaninterview,” Ruth stuttered. “But that it’s strange to talk to someone who’s committed such terrible crimes. That I’ll always wonder if you’re telling me the whole story, or whether you’re planning to keep some secrets tucked away,” she said, examining Daphne’s reaction.Just tell me I’m right about him, Ruth thought.

“I am telling you everything,” Daphne snapped. “I’m the one who confessed, remember?”

“Of course, but it’s different sitting here now. Some part of you wonders: would she kill someone I care about? Would she kill me too?” Ruth murmured. These questions were at the core of this story, but Ruth tried to act casually, as if she were just a diligent journalist doing some fact-checking.

A silence fell over the room. An uneasy, stomach-squirming silence, as the two women stared at each other. Ruth knew that Daphne hated being put on the spot, hated ‘gotcha’ journalists. That maybe, in a strange way, she saw Ruth as just as much of a threat as Ruth considered her one.

It made her afraid, the way Daphne was staring at her, the barely contained rage beneath the surface. But it also made her angry. How dare this woman decide who lived and who died? Ever since Ruth had heard about Daphne, had realized that it was her, the killer she’d been waiting for, she’d felt this anger growing inside her, spooling in her intestines, wrapping itself around her heart, her lungs, her head, crowding out her empathy and her tolerance more and more.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Daphne finally said, her words careful, but with a hint of warning. “I only kill men.”

More silence. Ruth felt a strange impulse to grab Daphne’s bony shoulders and shake her, watch that dyed black perm and wrinkly face flop around on her brittle neck.

“Let’s keep going,” Ruth said finally, letting the moment pass, resuming their usual dance. “What happened after Geoffrey died?”

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