Killer: A Novel, page 22
“Your loss,” I say to him. “Like you said, I did kill the killer.”
“Yeah,” Melvin admits. “You did.”
“You don’t know him,” Nicki says to Melvin. “He’s inclined to run off like an idiot, thinking he can solve crimes and catch bad guys single-handed.”
“Yeah,” Melvin says. “And run from the cops and the FBI and think he can actually get away with it.”
“Who, me?” I say.
* * *
It is quiet in my apartment, but I can see plenty of life streaming outside my windows whenever I feel the need, which is frequent. My office is well-lighted and lined with books, and I will spend the next chapter of my life here, hopefully filling the shelves of fine bookstores everywhere. No one may yet confuse me with John Updike, but I have new ideas and new books to write. Always, always books to write. Because although my apartment is full of sunlight during the day and laughter and love come evening, when the moon rises and the friends go home, after Nicki falls asleep in my arms, my thoughts turn to the hole in my life, and what memories may come. Because memories don’t always obey, and the demons are always, always just around the corner.
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Stephen Carpenter, Killer: A Novel
