Brazen Virtue

jewelry.
    So she’d start with the paperwork, beginning with the funeral and working her way back. There were all those cards. Her mother would probably like to have them, to put them away in some little box. Perhaps that would be the easiest place to start. Most of the names would be unfamiliar. Once she’d broken the ice, she could face the more personal of her sister’s affairs.
    First she was going to wire her system with coffee.

    Grace took a pot up to her room. She glanced almost wistfully at her computer. It had been days since she’d turned it on. If she fell behind deadline, which was becoming more and more likely, her editor would be sympathetic. She’d already received half a dozen calls from New York offering help and condolences. It almost made up for the picture in the paper that morning of her at Kathleen’s funeral.
    AWARD-WINNING WRITER’S SISTER BURIED
G. B. MCCABE ATTENDS FUNERAL OF BRUTALLY MURDERED SISTER
    She hadn’t bothered with the text.
    The headlines didn’t matter, she reminded herself. She’d expected them. Sensationalism was part of the game. And it had been a game to her, up until a few nights ago.
    Grace finished off one cup of coffee and poured another before she reached for the manila envelope. It was crammed with cards. She was tempted just to ship them off to her mother. Instead, she sat on the bed and began to go through them. Some of them might require a personal note in response. Better that she do it now than have her mother face it later.
    There was one from all the students at Kathleen’s school. As she studied it, Grace considered donating money for a scholarship in Kathleen’s name. She set the card aside until she could discuss the idea with her lawyer.
    She recognized a few names from California, the rich and powerful families that Kathleen had known. Let Jonathan handle any response there, she decided, and dumped them into a pile.
    One from an old neighbor made her eyes tear again. They’d lived next door to Mrs. Bracklemen for fifteen years. She’d been old then, or had seemed so to Grace. There had always been cookies baking in the oven or snatches of material that could be made into a puppet. Grace set this card aside as well.

    She picked up the next card. She stared at it, rubbed her fingers over her eyes, then stared again. This wasn’t right. It was a florist’s card with the words IN MEMORIAM printed opposite a spray of red roses. Handwritten in the center was the sentiment:
    Desiree, I’ll never forget .
    Even as she stared, the card slipped out of her fingers and fell faceup on the floor at her feet.
    Desiree. The word seem to grow until it spread over the entire card.
    “I’m Desiree,” Kathleen had said so casually that first night. I’m Desiree .
    “Oh, God.” Grace began to shake as she stared down at the card. “Oh, dear God.”
    J ERALD SAT THROUGH HIS English Literature class as his teacher droned on and on about the subtleties and symbolism of Macbeth . Jerald had always liked the play. He’d read it several times and didn’t need Mr. Brenner to explain it to him. It was about murder and madness. And, of course, power.
    He’d grown up with power. His father was the most powerful man in the world. And Jerald knew all about murder and madness.
    Mr. Brenner would have a heart attack if he stood up and explained to him just how it felt to cut off a life. If he explained the sounds it made, or the look on someone’s face as the life drained out of it. The eyes. The eyes were the most incredible.
    He’d decided he liked killing, in much the same way George Lowell, who sat beside him, liked baseball. It was, in a way, the ultimate sport. So far, he was batting a thousand.

    True, Roxanne hadn’t meant as much to him as Desiree. He’d enjoyed that one-second flash where orgasm and death had mixed, but Desiree … Desiree had meant a great deal more.
    If only it could be like that again. If only he could have her back. It wouldn’t be fair if he didn’t experience again that great rush of love and release.
    It had been the anticipation, Jerald decided. Like Macbeth with Duncan, he’d had the buildup, the terror, and the destiny. Roxanne had been more of an experiment. The way in chemistry you tried to reconstruct to prove a theory.
    He needed to do it again. Another experiment. Another chance at perfection. His father would understand that. His father never settled for less than perfection. And he was, after all, his