The Good Lie

by A.R. Torre

Part of the game, for many killers, is the con of the innocent, the hiding of the monster, the successful deception that proves to them that they are smarter and therefore superior.

“With this glass, rich and deep, we cradle all our sorrows to sleep.” I gave a wistful smile. “My dad used to say that. Though he was a scotch man, not Bud Light.”

The missing kid. Not Gabe, who hadn’t been able to escape. Scott Harden. Lucky Scott Harden.

“They found a shoebox in his house.” He met the man’s eyes. “It had souvenirs from each of the boys, including Gabe.”

Losing a child was like losing a limb. You were reminded of it every time you moved, until the consistent adjustments to life became a permanent part of you.

William S. Burroughs once said that no one owns life, but anyone who can lift a frying pan can create death. He was right. Killing is the easy part. The act of living—of finding happiness in life—that’s the hard part. Moving past grief and guilt, and learning to love and to trust . . .