You think you know more than I do, he laughed, then realized he was laughing at himself. Alice never even knew his name, although he knew hers and several more just like it. He knew too much, he reckoned, although the police, when they got around to asking, found nothing worth following up on. Tomorrow all would seem different, but not to him. Ha! Murdering and being a murderer were clearly not the same. Just like eating chicken and being a chicken eater rumbled differently in the minds of those confined to MacDonald’s and leftovers. One was fraught with fiction, the other with regret or praise. If there were something beyond that, he mused over his third margarita, it was made of those bright yellow feathers borne only by chicks on Hallmark cards.
Grissom looked away from the screen. He’d written long enough and produced nothing that couldn’t be improved by the delete key. Jocelyn should have been home by now. Maybe she’d met someone in the bar next to the Koreans. Now that malls had started creating spaces for trysting bars the myth of suburban tranquility just wasn’t what it never actually was.