Jane Doe(11)

So why the grief and surprise?

When I pointed out that he was, in fact, guilty and deserved to do time, my grandma called me a nasty little bitch. I’d heard it before, of course, usually from my mother. A nasty, cold-blooded, selfish, grasping, uppity, ungrateful goddamn little bitch. And I knew that to be true. I could feel the coldness in my own veins.

What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be normal? Like any other teenage girl, I just wanted to fit in. I hadn’t been good at faking it back then because I hadn’t understood what I was trying to fake: a soul.

My senior year of high school, I took psychology as an elective, and boom, there it was. A description of me right in our textbook. That first time I read about sociopaths, I felt filled up with a bright light that was equal parts terror and joy. Finally—finally!—I understood. It was scary to know the truth, yes, but not nearly as frightening as ignorance.

I didn’t feel doubt. I didn’t feel guilt. And empathy was mostly beyond my grasp.

Of course, that was the golden age of serial killer true crime books, and for a while I thought being a sociopath meant I was destined for an existence of psychopathic evil. I thought it was the inevitable progression of my life. After all, I’d slept with my married English teacher and felt not one ounce of regret despite that his wife was my very kind calculus teacher. He, on the other hand, had sobbed with shame and guilt. Afterward, of course. Always afterward. Erections and guilt can’t exist in the same plane. One makes way for the other.

I’d watched him weeping, his penis flaccid and wet, and I’d thought, Well, that was my first act of true evil. I’d seduced my teacher just because I hated the homework so much and I wanted to blackmail him into an A. I figured I was heading into serial killer territory soon. I set my next-door neighbor’s pet rabbit free in the woods, because I was sure I’d wake up one morning tempted to kill it. I wanted to put off my degeneration as long as possible.

But, happily, later research at the county library assured me that most people like me don’t grow up to be killers. We lie and manipulate and take advantage, but usually that just makes us great at business. Yay for capitalism.

From then on, I worked on navigating my way through life with this . . . disability. I even learned to appreciate my affliction, to see the decency of living with logic instead of being buffeted by the whims of a fickle heart.

I’ve felt different my whole life, because I am. Still, I’m not as different as you’d think. There are a lot of us. More than I even realized back then. Most of us are just trying to get through the day, like aliens living secretly among humans. And we’re great for the economy. It’s easy to turn a profit when you have no self-doubt.

“You’re a healthy eater,” Steven says. He could be complimenting that I’ve eaten all my greens, but he isn’t. He means I’m keeping up with him.

“Thanks,” I respond.

He laughs in surprise at that, and then our entrées arrive, and, boy, I’m going to health the heck out of that plate. The Bolognese smells amazing, and I’m suddenly thankful for this night with Steven. The waiter adds Parmesan with a flourish, and Steven watches as I take my first bite.

Oh my God, it’s perfect. He grins at my happy groan and I relax into the pleasure.

He mentions judo, and I know if a grown man is practicing martial arts, it’s important to him, so I ask questions and let him talk about it for a full half an hour to make him feel important. I don’t mention that I’ve seen elite karate and jujitsu matches all over Asia. It’s not something I’m interested in; it’s just part of business networking there.

By the end of the meal, I’m stuffed, half-drunk, and thinking the best ending to the night would be sex. Hell, I’d even go for sex with Steven at this point. He’s been entirely pleasant, but pleasant or not, sleeping with him now would be a tactical error. He’ll lose all respect for me. I’ll just be the slut at the office who puts out too easily. He’ll avoid me. He won’t invite me over. He won’t be vulnerable.

I need him vulnerable.

I could have just gotten rid of him, of course. I could have flown into town, poisoned him, shot him, stabbed him, whatever, and been on my way, a complete stranger with no connection to the crime. The perfect murder.

But I want to hurt him in the worst way possible. Death, after all, is one moment in time. But what if I can find a way for him to live in misery for years? I need to get closer to find out his weakest point, and if I have sex with him now, I’ll be trash.

Women have to worry about that kind of bullshit when they’re dating and when they’re plotting a crime. Hardly seems fair, does it?

Oh, well. I’ve already decided Steven won’t be good in bed, so I play coy even as I giggle drunkenly at his flirting. He’s sure he has a chance tonight. I’m tipsy and I’m wearing a lacy bra and I’m on the rebound. He thinks he can get in my pants, which means he’ll want it even more when I don’t put out.

Steven throws some twenties on the table, then stands up to pull out my chair. He even helps me back into my sweater. His hands smooth over my shoulders and squeeze my arms. “I’ll give you a ride home,” he murmurs into my ear.

I loop my arm through his as we walk out the door of the restaurant and into the cool night. The gorgeous scent of dead leaves wraps around us on the breeze. I shiver and tuck myself a little closer to his body warmth, and I’m more than willing to let him wrap his arm around my shoulders for the sake of comfort. His cologne swamps the delicate smell of autumn, but I can still hear the dry leaves shaking overhead.