Page 61 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

SHUT UP ABOUT THE TYLENOL MURDERS.

By Ruth’s count, her podcast was now calledThe Six Murders of Daphne St Clair. Joe’s death did pose a challenge for her podcast title. Was it murder to watch someone have a heart attack and refuse to call 911? Morally, it was obviously wrong, but did it actually count the same as her other sins? Should Ruth call itThe Six and a Half Murders of Daphne St Clairjust to be sure? Somehow it didn’t have the same ring.

“So, you’re really not leaving anything out?” Ruth probed again. “Because the gap between the murders of Donald St Clair and Warren Ackerman is quite big.” Ruth swallowed, trying to control the rising desperation she was feeling. This couldn’t be the end. Daphne was robbing her of the chance to explain why this all mattered to her, how Daphne had changed her life without ever knowing she existed.

“I’m not an addict, you know! Lots of killers stop. Sometimes they start again, like BTK, sometimes they don’t, like the Golden State Killer—”

“Yes, we all know you know fun facts about serial killers,” Ruth snapped before she could stop herself.

She glanced down at her hands, which were wrapped around the microphone so tightly that her fingers ached. She had a vision of knocking the old woman to the floor and kicking her with the shoes Daphne mocked so frequently. “I don’t want to know about them. I’m asking whyyoustopped? What could possibly account for such a long period between murders?”

“I think you need a break. You’re sweating like a whore in church,” Daphne said slowly. She was sitting very still, watching Ruth out of the corner of her eye, like a bird of prey. Ruth brought her hand up to her face and realized that her face was slick with sweat.

“Okay,” Ruth said, her legs shaking as she stood up. “I might go splash some water on my face.”

Ruth tottered to the bathroom and shut the door firmly, feeling her chest rattle with every breath. All the coffee she’d consumed to counteract her bad sleep was making her feel hot and queasy.

In all the hours she had spent in Daphne’s place, Ruth had never actually used Daphne’s bathroom before. It had always felt too awkward and intimate. How could you keep some psychological distance from your subject once you sat on their still-warm toilet seat? And this was definitely an old woman’s bathroom. There were handles on both sides of the toilet and a large shower with a porous, plastic shower seat. Ruth tried not to imagine Daphne sitting on that seat, naked and sagging, as a glowering attendant scrubbed her with a washcloth.

Ruth doused her face with water and washed her hands with a soap that smelled heady and floral. There was a small assortment of lipsticks and face creams on the countertop, all designer brands. In an effort to calm down, Ruth read the names of the Chanel lipsticks, each of which probably cost as much as her last grocery bill. Antoinette, Marie, Gabrielle, Etienne, and Adrienne. The kind of glamorous names Daphne had chosen and changed throughout her life, with as little care as changing lipsticks. After all, Chanel wasn’t going to make a fifty-dollar lipstick named Loretta.

After a few minutes Ruth felt moderately calmer, even though her head ached and her hands were still shaky. She took a final breath, staring at herself in the mirror.

It’s almost over,she told herself.Make her confess and you’re done.

As she was leaving the bathroom, almost as an afterthought, Ruth slipped one of the lipsticks, a red-gold one named Gabrielle, into her pocket, her small act of rebellion against Daphne.

Ruth noticed instantly that Daphne was sitting on the edge of her seat and seemed to be panting slightly, as if she had just exerted herself. Slowly, Ruth’s eyes tracked over to her water bottle, which was sitting on the coffee table. While Ruth had never accepted any food or drink from Daphne, she had gotten into the habit of bringing her reusable metal bottle with her, to keep her voice smooth for interviews. But this was the first time she had ever left Daphne unattended with her drink.

Had the bottle been moved? Maybe. Ruth thought she remembered it being closer to the center of the table, but she wasn’t certain. She sat down, painfully aware of her own pounding heart. Daphne was watching her, a small smile playing on her lips. Had she put something in her bottle? Cleaning fluid? Medication? Or had she moved the bottle to make Ruth think she’d tampered with it? Or was this all paranoia fueled from sleep deprivation and the knowledge she was in a room with a fucking murderer?

Daphne was watching her, and then slowly, unmistakably, her eyes traveled over to the bottle. But what did that mean? Should she unscrew the top and look inside? See if the surface was frothing or there was a pill still dissolving? Daphne didn’t move very quickly. Would she have even had enough time to tamper with the bottle while Ruth was in the bathroom?

Ruth’s mouth suddenly felt dry and her hand twitched, as if reaching for the bottle. Daphne was still watching her as Ruth desperately tried to work out what to do. Examine the bottle’s contents? Storm out of here? Demand an explanation?

Finally, Daphne spoke. “So, what was it you were badgering me about?”

“Why you stopped killing. Why there was such a large gap between Donald and Warren. . .” Ruth croaked, tearing her eyes from the bottle.

“I was old, I suppose, and tired. It takes a lot of effort, pretending to be the person someone wants, hooking them, marrying them, waiting a decent amount of time before you start poisoning them. I was just tired of other people. Tired of pretending,” Daphne murmured, her bony shoulders rising in a shrug. She was staring at the table—at the bottle?—with a detached, vacant gaze.

“Okay well, that’s probably enough for the day. If you say you didn’t kill anyone else, then you didn’t,” Ruth said, the words tumbling out her dry, cracked lips. All her plans to confront Daphne that day, to corner her into a confession, had dried up with the terror that Daphne might have tried to poison her. Why hadn’t it occurred to her earlier that it could be dangerous, trying to get Daphne to reveal something she was hiding? That a cornered killer was particularly deadly?

“Exactly. I didn’t,” Daphne said. She was still staring at the table, but her eyes were stormy. Ruth frowned. Daphne’s answer sounded sincere. She was a damn good liar.

Somebody knocked on the door. Ruth glanced at her watch. It would be an attendant with Daphne’s pills.

The moment Daphne closed the bathroom door to take them, Ruth tore the lid off her bottle and examined its contents. It looked like water, the same tap water she’d filled it with in her apartment. Ruth sniffed the rim gingerly, but there was no chemical scent. She considered touching the liquid to her lips but she couldn’t force herself to do it.

As she exited the building, she threw the bottle in the trash.

Was Daphne just playing games with her? Or was it a warning?

Ruth was close. Too close.

That evening, Ruth was standing on the sidewalk in front of the Seacrest Building, recording some background noise. She could hear the ocean, the seagulls, and the passing cars, many of which cost more than her college degree. It was times like this, when Ruth was working on the mechanics of the podcast, setting up her equipment, structuring episodes in her head, that she felt at peace.

“Why are you here?” a voice demanded, jolting her out of her reverie. Ruth whirled around and there she was. Lucy.

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