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By J. Robert King

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Loneliness. I feel it, too. I’ve been utterly alone these years, and had not even known what to call it. To be lonely is bad enough, but to feel this aching draw of soul to soul and still be alone in it all… You are shutting down. You think I think you were too forward. You are more surprised and disturbed by the kiss than I, though it was only the chaste kiss of lip to cheek. Mine is not. I kiss your lips. Always before, that kiss has been a slaying one, though in this passionate rush, I will not let it be.

Folded away in metal and plastic. He turns forward again and watches the cars and their firefly lights. One of his mantis hands lifts to the horn and honks it twice, a bleating sound. He begins to pick glass out of his body, tossing the bloody fragments out onto what is left of the hood. They aren’t enough to kill him, he knows. Nor is the shoulder dislocation, already swelling beneath a strained strap. Nor is the bleeding band of his forehead where it crunched against the steering wheel. But he will die tonight.

The only Wisconsin crimes that matched the priest’s murder were the two she had already been involved with. Strange that I’ve worked both cases. I was only an assistant investigator five years ago. It’s like the killer has me targeted. She shook away that idea. The long hours and gruesome scenes, the memories of poor Kerry and his homemade noose, the death of her partner – all of it was tumbling around in her head. Chronic loneliness had deepened to bona fide isolation. Perhaps she would go to Lakeland Animal Shelter to see if they had any calico kittens, but it would only be cruel to leave a kitten alone for so many hours a day.

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