Nice Girls(86)

My heart was thrashing in my chest, my body trembling on the ground. I closed my eyes, trying not to think about the ax and the rope and the blood and the screams that flashed in my brain like a carousel that wouldn’t stop.

“What you did was a crime, you know—invading someone else’s privacy,” he said, as if he was a tad bit disappointed. “It’s rude.”

I clamped my eyes shut so tightly that I saw sparks.

I heard footsteps pad over the floor. They drew closer, stopping near my head. My eyes spasmed open, looking up into John Stack’s glasses. I screamed, the sound getting lost in the fabric.

John Stack continued to sip from his mug, one hand in his pocket. He was observing me the way a child would watch a zoo animal. Once I realized it, I froze.

“We spoke at Olivia’s funeral,” he said. “In case you don’t remember.”

I did remember. John Stack had reached out and touched Olivia’s casket, and he’d said a few words:

Just pitiful. None of it should have happened.

He wasn’t talking about Olivia’s death. He was talking about the fact that he had to kill her.

After a long sip of coffee, John exhaled.

“It’s strange that you showed up. Stranger that you took photos of my property. But I won’t ask—I think I already know.”

He stalked back to the kitchen. I immediately squirmed, trying to free my arms, my legs—anything. The fear pulsed through me.

“I have nothing against you,” he said, turning on a faucet. “Your father’s an honest worker. And the Willands said that you’re a Cornellian. That’s impressive.”

I was sweating as I struggled. The rope stayed stiff on my body.

“I can tell you were raised properly. You seem modest, polite. A good woman in the making.” He paused and turned off the faucet. “Can’t say the same for the rest of your kind. You probably know this—we live in the time of the modern-day whore.”

I felt a shiver run through me.

“It’s sad. Womanhood has no value anymore. Women just spread their legs these days. No respect for the sanctity of marriage or one’s body. It’s a disease, Mary, an epidemic. They keep infecting our society . . .

“Some take it further. They whore themselves out for money—on the streets, online, in the movies. It’s bad enough. But then they act like they deserve respect. Like they have value.”

John Stack opened a drawer. There was a clank as he dug around inside, his hands pushing aside its contents—maybe a whisk, a wooden spoon, a knife . . .

“I can’t stand it, the entitlement. If you act like a whore, you should be treated like one. No need to pretend otherwise. There are consequences.”

He slammed the drawer shut.

“For example: ‘When lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.’”

I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. In the silence, John Stack was rustling around the kitchen, grabbing things out of his cabinets, his fridge. My limbs were growing sore.

“I was the consequence,” he said, his voice soft. I stopped moving. “My mother dropped out of high school. She was poor. But instead of working for her money, she whored herself out. Then I came along, and she died during childbirth. I can’t say she didn’t deserve it.”

He was padding back. I stayed frozen, the tears dried on my face. John Stack sat down on the couch nearby. He nibbled at a piece of toast on his plate. He’d smeared it with strawberry jam.

“When the DeMaria girl reached out to me, I gave her many chances. I warned her about the consequences. But she didn’t care—she did the deed by herself. She had no shame when I filmed her. As long as she got paid.

“And the whole time, I thought to myself, What about your son? What will he think when he grows up and the other boys start taunting him? His mother’s a whore. No matter how hard he cleans or how good he acts, he is still filthy because of her.” John Stack’s voice grew quiet. “It is an unfair burden on a child. DeMaria didn’t understand this.”

DeMaria’s bedroom, her Bible, her son flashed by in a blur. But I was stuck watching John Stack as he finished his toast, deep in thought. He wasn’t even looking at me.

“Olivia was fortunate to never get pregnant. Lord knows the filth that ran in that family. Martin was a sleaze in college—mediocre, could only think with his cock—but he was lucky. Beautiful wife, beautiful girl. He should’ve kept a better eye on them. Heather was so lonely she was throwing herself at me . . . And what was I supposed to do?” he asked, getting off the couch. John Stack headed for the kitchen again.

I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself.

“There are consequences. Imagine my surprise when Olivia reached out all those years ago . . .”

My eyes fluttered open, watching as John Stack returned. I was tearing up. He bent down, squatting beside me. I could smell the coffee on his breath.

He looked into my eyes, and I saw nothing crazy in his. John Stack saw no disconnect between his words and his actions. There was no hypocrisy around his affair with Mrs. Willand or the films that he’d made. The man was convinced he was right.

“Olivia was in high school,” he murmured gently. “She was reaching out to a stranger to make some cash. When she found out that stranger was her father’s friend, she was shocked. Most people would have backed out, but Olivia was persistent.