And then he was asleep.
59
I’m not like other women. I think most women feel that way. And really, when you stop to think about what that means, it’s absolutely true. None of us are alike. Of course we share desires and there’s an overlap in beliefs regarding society and philosophy, but beyond that, there’s infinite variation. Seven billion different permutations, and counting.
Of those seven billion, approximately forty-nine and a half percent are female. Glorious, strong, smart human beings. Women think and read and form opinions. They lift weights and run, they dance and play golf, soccer, basketball, and poker. They cook and eat. They partner with another person to raise children. They smoke and drink and fuck. Just like men.
Yet a despairing percentage of men treat women as if they are sub-human, existing only for male pleasure and comfort — whores and Madonnas, if you will. Some view women as punching bags and vessels for the disappointments in their own lives. They talk over women and bully them. Weak men, to be sure.
Strong, confident men don’t behave that way. But those men, who can’t feel strong unless they demean a woman, deserve to die. It’s a harsh statement, but it’s the truth. The law of evolution decrees that weak animals will not live to their life expectancy. The herd is trimmed whether we like it or not, whether we approve or not. It’s how the planet’s ecosystem works.
Randy Flynn was my first and I’ll never forget a single moment — shaping the noose, listening as his tongue grew thick and inarticulate from the combination of pot and vodka and the roofie, while I recalled the warmth of his body against mine, and remembered how we laughed and tripped out over the murder game. I won’t forget how he sounded as he thrashed at the end of the rope in a drugged stupor. But neither will I forget what they did to Lisa simply because they wanted to define the place a woman is permitted to occupy in the world. At the same time, I won’t ever forget about Lisa’s graduation from the UCLA School of Law. Last I heard, she was planning to run for the Inglewood city council. Her first step. Occasionally, I call her from a disposable phone. She still feels guilty about the murder game, but she mentions it less frequently since she graduated from law school. I think studying law taught her there’s a little more blurring between right and wrong than she originally believed.
I haven’t been in touch with Sylvia, but I trust that without Charlie, she’s working hard, raising her puppy-cute kids, and baking brownies. Once her kids are teens, maybe she’ll lace up those brownies with a bit of herbal relaxation.
Moving into Noreen’s house was an act of desperation because I had to wipe out my existence in Santa Clara county. I’d left an indistinct footprint, so it wasn’t difficult. It’s not a problem to erase pieces of my history, but I don’t like making changes from a place of desperation. I like to plan, I like to think things through. Desperation leads to mistakes.
The day after Noreen and Brian plunged to their deaths, I drove back to the Safeway and ran back to the cliffside bungalow. I spent three hours cleaning all the surfaces Jared and I had touched. I vacuumed and swept and dusted. I used a damp mop and cleanser to chase down every loose hair and fingernail clipping.
The broken railing yawned off the back deck. I went out to clean the table and chairs and the area where I’d crouched waiting for them, but I didn’t look down at the rocks and water below. Presumably the surf had taken their bodies, but it was likely the current would also return them at some point in time.
Escaping to the cabin, despite it’s classy charm and secluded environment and my fascination with the massive house that also sits on the property, was another act of desperation. I had to get myself out of Noreen’s bungalow before bodies washed back up on the rocks or a curious neighbor came to investigate. I had to get Jared out of there before he realized what had happened.
Someday, I’ll have a spacious home filled with easy silence. When there’s noise, it will be my choice, filling it with the crashing and complex music I love. It will have gardens and skylights, Italian tile floors and a magnificent kitchen. It will have a jacuzzi tub and a three-head shower. Every piece of furniture will be custom made and hold my body like a precious jewel. It will have its own weight room.
The house I’m in now might turn out to be an even tighter prison than Noreen’s, but one small step at a time.
It’s a huge disappointment knowing I’ll never flirt with Joe again. I’ll never see his body, taste his kiss, smell his desire. He was a beguiling man in so many ways. Without a doubt, he’s the best lover I’ve had so far in my life. Part of that was the mystery of concealing ourselves in equal measure. I had no idea that would be such an aphrodisiac. Or maybe it was simply that we saw inside of each other and liked the stillness we found there. That’s what I first thought was so captivating about him.
As it turned out, maybe I only saw a reflection of myself in the mirror of his face.
A Note to Readers
Thanks for reading. I hope you liked reading about Alexandra as much as I enjoy writing her stories.
I’m passionate about fiction that explores the shadows of suburban life and the dark corners of the human mind. To me, the human psyche is, as they say in Star Trek — the final frontier — a place we’ll never fully understand. I’m fascinated by characters who are damaged, neurotic, and obsessed.
To find out when the next Alexandra Mallory novel is available, sign up for my new release mailing list. As a thank you for signing up, you’ll receive a free Alexandra short story — Death Valley.
Cathryn Grant’s new book release mailing list
I love to stay in touch with readers.
You can find me on my Facebook page or at my website.
Book Two:
The Woman In the Water is available on Amazon.
Acknowledgements
An ocean of gratitude to Don Grant — my First Reader and Editor. He waits eagerly for each novel to make its first draft appearance, devouring the story with all its rough edges. He reads the book again, offering suggestions on tweaks to the plot and characters, pointing out where I’ve droned on for too long and where I obliviously skipped past an important scene. In the end, he painstakingly proofreads — twice.
Without his always available ears, his belief in my writing, and his sense of humor, I might never have found my voice.
Also By Cathryn Grant
NOVELS
The Demise of the Soccer Moms
Buried by Debt
The Suburban Abyss
The Hallelujah Horror Show
Getting Ahead
Faceless
An Affair With God
THE HAUNTED SHIP TRILOGY
Alone On the Beach
Slipping Away From the Beach
Haunting the Beach
NOVELLAS
Madison Keith Ghost Story Series
Chances Are
SHORT STORIES
Reduction in Force
Maternal Instinct
Flash Fiction For the Cocktail Hour
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
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A Note to Readers
Acknowledgements
Also By Cathryn Grant
The Woman In the Mirror: (A Psychological Suspense Novel) (Alexandra Mallory Book 1) Page 29