Call me Chloe
You can call me Chloe. I like that name. You can’t be a bad person if you’re named Chloe.
I was eleven when I discovered my father was a serial killer. It was my ears that gave it away, believe it or not. A kid at school, a couple of years older than me, teased me about my ears constantly. Every day at recess and lunch, each morning before class, each afternoon on the way to the bus stop, this kid would call me unkind names and comment about my ears.
One day, this kid told me I had the same ears as Sam Kearaway, the serial killer. I defended myself the only way I knew how: “I do not!” When my mum came in later that night and found me crying, I told her everything. She was silent.
“It’s silly, just forget it,” she finally said. But I saw her lip tremble. At the time, of course, it didn’t mean anything. Mum was just upset for me. The next day at school, I looked up Sam in the library and we did seem to have the same ears.
Still, I couldn’t come out and ask mum right away. That happened when I was fifteen. We’d had a huge fight; about what, I can’t remember. Afterwards, I yelled at her that she’d lied to me about my real father. She broke down. She admitted it was all true. We hugged. She told me she was sorry. She didn’t know. Not until he was arrested. She never felt in danger. He was nice.
Nice?
“Well, yes,” Mum replied. “I honestly had no idea. I know that’s hard to believe…”
“When did you know?”
She lowered her eyes, ashamed. “The trial. There was just too much I couldn’t ignore anymore.”
So there you have it. I am the daughter of a man who raped and murdered at least 32 women. Some of those women were younger than I am now. It’s not right that I should outlive them.
I’m sitting in a restaurant, waiting for a man I met on a dating app. He looks nice. Professional. Polite. Nice smile. I clink my spoon and fork in turns against my wine glass. White wine. Red looks like blood.
He’s wearing a long black coat, the kind lawyers wear on TV. He’s even carrying a briefcase, which amuses me. I stand up to shake his hand as he approaches.
“Firm handshake,” he notes. “Powerful.”
I smile, and sit. He clears his throat and drags his chair towards the table as he sits. I cringe.
“I’m glad you agreed to meet me,” he says, smile still plastered on his face as if painted on.
“Likewise.”
“Tell me about your childhood,” he says, looking away from me to catch the attention of a waiter.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“No dark skeletons in the closet?” He’s joking, of course. He couldn’t possibly know. It’s been years since I’ve had my ears surgically fixed.
“Not in the closet, but there were several incomplete skeletons under the shed,” I say, sipping my wine.
He laughs as a waiter brings him the same wine I am drinking.
“Regular childhood, huh? Mine too. Nothing at all interesting. Although we did go to Bora Bora when I was twelve.”
“How ‘bout that?” I say with practised indifference.
The rest of our lunch was pleasant enough. I ordered spaghetti. He ordered scallops and mussels, slurping the contents from their shells and tilting his head back as he swallowed. I knew what he was doing. His tongue was doing the same dance he hoped to do to me later.
At the end of the meal, he paid despite my insistence that I pay my share. I do not mind when I pay my own way, but I do like that someone is willing to pay for me. Who complains about a free lunch with two glasses of wine?
I invite him for drinks at my place later that evening, knowing we both have to return to work right now. He checks his smart watch, one that links to his phone. He grins, taps his phone and sets up a reminder. I punch in my address, and tell him I will see him at 8.
At 8.01pm, the intercom buzzed and I tapped the button to let him in. I smoothed my skirt (a different one than I wore to lunch), slicked my hair and opened the door.
I could tell he was impressed by my apartment. “You can rent it, look it up on Air BnB,” I say. He thinks I’m joking and laughs.
“Hmm, something smells delicious,” he said, throwing his jacket on the chair by the door.
“I assume you like pizza?”
He grinned. “Name a red-blooded male who doesn’t like pizza.”
“Well, I’m cooking pizza. Handmade, from scratch. You’ve got the works, but I’m a simple woman. I like just plain cheese.”
“You promised me a drink,” he drawls, moving closer.
“Indeed I did. Do you like tea? I have a selection of herbal teas. Peppermint, chamomile, fruit…”
“Mmm, I was hoping you’d have scotch.” He reclined on the couch, crossing his legs and spreading his arms along the back.
It was a lovely evening. I won’t go into too many details – I’ll leave that to your imaginations – but it was about midnight by the time he left. I always sleep alone.
Before I left the apartment in the morning, I cleaned. I had a booking for a week-long stay starting that afternoon. Before I left, I made sure to take the box of deathcap mushrooms with me. My date from last night should be feeling food poisoning symptoms right now, but by the time he dies in about a week or two, he’ll think he’s better and no one can trace it back to me.
People named Chloe don’t do bad things. However, I am not named Chloe.
