Last evening, in addition to bringing flowers and chocolate, Michael gave me a gift of sorts, a stolen one. I’m not sure I’m ready for it: a digital copy of an unfinished memoir, titled Confessions of a Murderer, lifted from the dead man’s laptop just before the police entered the scene.
I’ve been reading it in spurts, because I find the writing too raw. Don’t get me wrong: my literary taste is not all that refined. But being in the presence of a sick mind is no fun.
It scares me to the core.
Even so, I keep going back to it, hoping to find some answers. The more I read, the more convinced I become that my search is futile.
So no, I’m no longer thinking about the killer. There’s no more doubt about his identity.
Even so, he remains a mystery.
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~Piaras, VINE VOICE