Little Angel

Vera Klein

Bruce and I drove to the hotel, not the same hotel. We had moved closer to town. It was raining. The windshield wipers and pitter patter of the raindrops seemed to have us in a trance, neither of us saying a word most of the way.
As we got close to the hotel Bruce asked what I think.
“The boy is troubled. There’s no doubt about that. But is he capable of killing all those people? I don’t know. I’m not sure that I saw that in him.”
“His eyes,” Bruce said, then paused. “There was something behind them. It was like he was always processing something.”
“I saw it. He has to process more than most people, because he has to check his true thoughts against what he’s learned about what is expected of a normal person. Serial killers are highly intelligent. They know how to blend in. Not saying he’s our killer, but he could be a killer in the future.”
“Not much we can do about a could-be-killer.”
We pulled up to the hotel and got out of the car. I ran fast through the rain. Bruce yelled over the pouring rain, I couldn’t hear him. I ran to him.
“What did you say?”
“Want to come inside?”
Here he goes again. Not the time. Not the time at all. But for some reason, I accepted. I was lonely. I would make it understood that it was a one-time thing. Just two lonely people enjoying each other’s company. That’s all.