“I understand,” Rory says.
“Don’t hang up,” I tell her, pointing to the screen.
A terrible silence hangs for painful seconds, and then, “It’s me?” Weston’s voice is high, hand to his chest. “I’mthe one you want to go?”
“I need to be alone,” I repeat.
He nods his head, stepping toward the door, uncertainty in his eyes even while he’s trying to obey my request.
“Sure, yeah, I can, uh, yeah.”
I step closer to him and speak quietly. “Look. I’m good, we’re good, I just need to process this alone. It’smyfallout frommyshitty life. I’ll see you tonight, okay? Just give me this.”
He nods, and I see his Adam’s apple bob as he backs down the stairs and lets himself out of the van. I don’t stay to watch him leave, but I hear the door close as I make it back to the phone, and Rory who’s on it.
“Read it to me,” I tell her.
“I don’t think that’s?—”
“Read it.”
She takes a deep breath and nods, pulling it up on her phone, I’m guessing from the new angle of her on my screen.
“‘The Next Generation of Killers,’” Rory reads the title, lips thinned in restrained anger.
Misleading as fuck, but what did I expect?
“‘Infamous Santa Slayer, Artie Sanford, murdered five innocent people one snowy December day in Minnesota, fifteen years ago. A loving husband and father, he seemingly snapped over pressure to provide for his family at Christmas, brutally and fatally stabbing two mall Santas, an elf, a security guard, and a newlywed man before being taken out by local police, fourteen minutes after his killing spree began.’”
The usual lies, nothing new there.
Rory’s eye twitches, but she keeps going. “‘In this installment ofThe Next Generation of Killers: Where are They Now, we atSnoop Scoopare finding the people who loved the worst humanity has to offer and explore what they’re doing with their lives now. Who’s following in their family’s footsteps, and who is carving their own path?’”
Loved the worst humanity has to offer? They’re making it sound like we’re the freaks who wrote love letters to Charles Manson in prison, not children who lost a parent.
Rory’s voice wavers, and I see her lip tremble on the screen. She keeps reading anyway.
“‘This series examines topics like: is there an inherent societal risk? Does the risk factor stem from a biological trait that can be passed from one person to another through genetics? What is the FBI doing to profile dangerous individuals and stop them ahead of future violent crimes, and do they take genetics into account?’”
These sick fucks. Insinuating that I should be investigated because of my genetics, that I’m destined to follow in my father’s past, that I’m a future killer. How is this not libel?
I bite back the nausea and try to focus. The buzzing in my ears makes it hard to catch everything Rory reads, but I try. “‘In this installation, we’ll explore how do Artie’s kids feel about him now? Do they admire him, are they living up to his legacy? Neither of his children, Randall (32), Angel (27), responded to our requests for comment, so let’s take a look at their current lives and you can decide for yourself.’”
My vision blurs, everything around me fading in and out as my heart rate soars.
Rory stops talking, and the angle of her camera changes so she’s no longer in frame. I hear muffled sounds, and when she comes back into view her eyes are rimmed in red.
I envy her release of emotion. I feel none.
“It goes on to talk about your brother’s criminal past, his various arrests and charges, and then they share the name you’re using now, where you are, and every single thing they could find about you through official records over the years.”
I know she’s trying to spare me from the worst of it, but I’m not sure that’s helping. For me, the unknown is always the worst part.
Still, I say nothing.
When she speaks again, it’s a thick whisper. “Amelia, I’m scared that the way they found you was through the grant application.”
My eyelids fall shut and I rock with the realization.
