The Killer Who Found Me
I want to tell you why, because the why is the part I am proudest of.
I did not turn around because the turning around was what he was waiting for, and I was not, in that bookstore, in that aisle, on that Sunday afternoon, going to give a man his second favorite gesture from me without first making him understand that I had decided to give it.
I kept my eyes on the page.
I read one more sentence.
Then I said, into the page, in a voice I did not recognize as mine but which was I understood, as I heard the syllables come out the steadiest voice I had used in three months:
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