“I ate dinner, sat around my room at the Collingwood, and waited for time to go by. I thought about her and I thought about him and I thought about myself, and I wondered how I was going to do it. I’d made it look good for her. I’d let her think I was the boy genius with the whole routine down pat. Maybe the act set her mind to rest, but I wasn’t fooling myself. I was a novice at murder. I kept putting it together and it kept coming out wrong. My thoughts went in the usual places. I wanted to ki...ll a man and get away with it. There are a few standard ways of doing this, and I ran them all through my head and looked for one that would fit. None of them did. I could make it look like an accident. But the trouble with that is that there is no margin for error. When you fake an accident, or a suicide, you make one mistake and the ball game is over. One mistake and it’s no longer an accident or a suicide. It’s a murder, and you’re it. Cops are too good. Crime labs are too good. I could slug that fat bastard behind the ear, load him into his car and drive him over the nearest convenient cliff.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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