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October 22 - October 26, 2022
An image of Ted Bundy with his arm in a fake cast asking Brenda Ball to help him carry his books to his car flashed across Patricia’s mind. She dismissed it as undignified.
“I don’t want to hear of course,” Mrs. Greene said. “When I tell someone what’s happening out here they see an old woman living in the country who’s never been to school. When you tell them, they see a doctor’s wife from the Old Village and they pay attention. I don’t like to ask for favors but I need you to make them pay attention to this. You know I did everything I could to save Miss Mary. I gave my blood for her.
She pried Slick’s knees apart. At first, Patricia didn’t know what was coming through Slick’s sparse, blond pubic hair, and then she saw Slick’s abdominal muscles convulse and a runnel of black jelly oozed out of her vagina. It smelled rank, like something lying rotten on the side of the road in summer. And it kept coming, an endless ooze of fetid slime pooling in a quivering black puddle on the toilet seat lid.
Some of my organs don’t work properly and from time to time I need to borrow someone’s circulatory system and filter my blood through theirs. I’m not a vampire, I don’t drink it, it’s not any different than using a dialysis machine, except it’s more natural. And I promise you there’s no pain. In fact, from what I can tell it feels good to them.
If Maryellen hadn’t worked at Stuhr’s, if Grace and Mrs. Greene hadn’t been superior house cleaners, if Kitty hadn’t had such a good swing, if Slick hadn’t called them all and convinced them to come together again in her hospital room, if Patricia hadn’t read so many true crime books, if Mrs. Greene hadn’t put the pieces together, if Miss Mary hadn’t found the photograph, if Kitty hadn’t called to her in Marjorie Fretwell’s driveway that day.