Page 5 of Haven't Killed in Years
Porter grinned and rolled off the table. He was harmless—young and invincible. I considered him safe—the innate selfishness of histwenty-one-year-old brain preventing him from ever asking me too many personal questions. That was the quality I looked for most in a person.
I closed up a half hour later and grabbed a teriyaki chicken wrap from the sandwich shop next door. A marathon of this show about regrettable tattoos had premiered earlier that week—the perfect mind-numbing fodder. I ascended the set of stairs to my apartment, salivating over the scent of teriyaki emanating from the bag. I was going to house that thing like a python once I got inside and into my sweats. That was the plan anyway.
Sitting outside my door was another box.
Five
I kicked the door closedbehind me, dropping my chicken wrap on the entryway table. I needed to give my full attention to the box. It was another man’s arm. They could have sent an ear or something this time. I guess there was an intended message: another left arm = different victim.
Who out there could possibly care enough to exert this much effort to get to me? Maybe it was my father, working through a proxy, letting me know he was disappointed in me. More likely, it was one of his sycophants. My head fell into my hands and I took a moment to sit on the couch.
Someone wanted to play games with me. Could I play? Of course. I had already made a move by disposing of the first arm, after all. The question wasn’tCould I play?The question wasCould I stop?
I pulled another grocery bag out from under the sink. At least I had found a use for my growing collection of disposable paper bags, because for the life of me, I couldn’t remember to bring one to the store. The salad tongs from the other night were still on the counter,resting in the drying rack. I threw them in the bag with the box, then I dragged a chair over to the kitchen closet. On the top shelf I found a blonde wig from a Halloween party I’d attended a million years ago and I tucked my wavy, shoulder-length, brown-from-a-box hair under the wig. It was a cheap wig and I looked like I belonged in a comedy sketch. I added a winter beanie to cover the Disney princess bangs and it helped. Then I grabbed my teriyaki wrap and my severed arm and headed back to the Wellington station.
This was my second body part disposal, so I had to go farther in the same direction. I figured any other direction would create a radius around my apartment if someone put the pieces together. It was enough to convince me I was being smart about this. I rode the Orange Line all the way to the Forest Hills stop and put the arm into a mailbox on a deserted street corner.
On the train ride home, I was finally able to eat my chicken wrap, which was now cold and soggy. It left me with wet teriyaki fingers, which I cleaned to the best of my ability by rubbing against my jeans. My phone vibrated in my pocket and I reached for it, transferring specks of sauce onto my coat. It was an email—a message from Connor Nettles, my prison soulmate.
- - - - -
Finding a prison boyfriendwas one of the easiest things I’d ever done. I sent three emails and Connor put me on his visitors list. Usually when I drove to work instead of taking the train, it was out of laziness—spinning my wheels to find a plausible excuse to expense the thirty-five-dollar parking garage. This time I drove so that I could leave at lunch and head straight to Edgar Valley. If I left by eleven it was only twelve dollars—what a bargain. It had been a long time since I’d taken a personal day, even a half day, but I couldn’t wait until the weekend. I couldn’t sit around waiting for more arms.
This was my first time at a prison, which was remarkable considering two-thirds of my family unit had lived in one. The process was reasonably invasive. They inspected the inside of my trunk, I went through two metal detectors, and I had my hands swabbed at one point for drug residue. I didn’t have anything to hide other than my true identity, so I didn’t protest. Eventually I passed inspection and made it to the waiting area.
The corrections officer working the desk looked like someone’s lonely uncle, typing away on the computer. He was oblivious to my existence as I approached. Working in a prison, he should probably be more aware of his surroundings.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Yes?” He paused typing and peered up at me.
“Can I ask you something?” I crossed my arms on the counter, pushing my slightly-below-average-size boobs together, creating the appearance of perfectly adequate boobs. He just nodded, not into my tits. This would never happen to Erin Brockovich. “Some of the women over there were saying that Abel Haggerty is at this prison. Is that true?”
“You’re not one of those freaks, are you?” he asked, pursing his lips.
“Um, no.” I stood up off the counter, letting my boobs flop back to a comfortable distance away from each other. “I was only asking.”
“The bad ones always attract the nutcases,” he muttered.
“Does he get a lot of visitors?”
“Nah, he only has one guy on his list.” He went back to typing. If I wasn’t going away, he was at least going to multitask. “But the mail—you wouldn’t believe the sick shit people send him. And us guards have to sit and read all of it.”
“He only has one visitor?”
“Same guy, every Thursday. More loyal than the wives around here.”
“What’s his name?”
He paused typing again. “Nice try.” His snide grin judged my whole existence.
“Right. It’s not like the name would mean anything to me anyway.” I let my eyes wander around the room to cap off our interaction.
He couldn’t care less.
I left the waiting room and hustled across the parking lot to get back to my cell phone. I retrieved it from the glove compartment and sent Connor a message apologizing profusely for not making it and asking if I could pretty please visit on Thursday instead.
Six
