Darling

My Dearest Joanie,

My words cannot express the depth of feeling, of pure, raw emotion, that I have for you. I’ve watched you from afar for too long, unable to show myself to you, to let you know the love I feel for you…and the love for me, I am convinced you have. If I was still unsure, I would not be writing this.

Allow me the poetic conceit of expressing the many ways that I love you, please, darling Joanie. I love the way your face lights up when you smile or laugh, like the radiant sun adores you as much as I do. I love your hair, that shiny, long, blonde length, as if a sunbeam had deigned to wrap itself around your perfect skull. I love those beautiful, perfect, blue eyes, like luminous sapphires set into your delicate face. I love your sweetness, your wonderful intelligence (how I never have to talk down to you!), and your precious, precious kindness. Far too few beautiful girls are as kind as you.

I love the way you look in your nightgown, too, Joanie. So delicate, so virginal…I imagine that’s how you would look on your wedding night, don’t you? I like the lace on the hem and the sleeves, too; it adds that little aura of innocence. Of vulnerability.

Of course, we both know that isn’t true, don’t we. You’re not innocent anymore—I know. I watched you. Don’t be afraid by that, Joanie—I’m simply the guardian of your conscience. The protector of your innocence. He stole you; he defiled you. I know that. I took care of him for you, Joanie. I took care of that lying, evil degrader, that horrible man who despoiled you. Don’t worry, darling—I made it quick. He probably didn’t even feel a thing, not that delicate little needle plunging into his arm, delivering that lethal dose. It wasn’t a nasty poison, you don’t need to fret yourself about that. He just went drifting off to sleep. The forever kind.

It’s only because I worry about you, Joanie. You’re so precious, so sweet—people so easily take advantage of you. Like he did. And those others…ah, those others. You didn’t know I knew about them, did you? I could see the gleam of guilt in your eyes as you followed him into that hotel—but I forgave you. He just corrupted you, that’s all. He lied to you, made you believe you could trust him. But his influence was easy to remove, once I removed him.

I’ve watched you for so long, precious Joanie. Ever since we were little kids. I know you don’t remember our first meeting, but I do. We were at the playground—I was six, you were five. I dropped my sand shovel and you picked it up and handed it to me and told me your name was “Joanie.” It was love at first sight—at least, for me. Of course, then real life intruded, reality rearing its ugly, monstrous head, and you had to go away, trailing back to your mother, but I fancy I saw a glitter of regret in your eyes. Just a tiny speck, barely there in the oceanic depths, but still there. I can even remember what you wore that day—adorable blue jean overalls and a pink tee shirt with ruffled pink lace on the collar and the sleeves. Your tastes haven’t changed that much, have they, Joanie? Still feminine. Still girly. Still ruffles and lace.

I hope you like the dress I picked out for you. It will be for our wedding, if I may be so presumptuous. Of course, you may pick another, if it does not suit you, but I think it will. It’s what you’ve always wanted…or at least, as you said to your best friend, Lily. It was no great task to enjoin her to spill all your secrets. Alcohol is a great loosener of tongues. She told me how you wanted a white satin dress dripping in frothy white lace, and seed-pearls on the bodice, and just a little bit of a train—not a lot, just a little. Enough. And how you wanted white high heels because you always wanted to wear stilettos to a wedding. And a veil—a fine, misty veil that you could still see through, because you wanted to make sure that you were still marrying the right guy.

You will be, with me.

I wish that I could feel, or see, or hear some small expression of your devotion. But I know that can’t happen yet. I can’t reveal myself quite yet. I might frighten you, dearest Joanie, and I don’t want that. I would never hurt you. You know that, don’t you? I confess, my wanderings up to this point may have become a trifle…threatening, but never towards you, my beloved, never towards you! You are just a woman, after all, a poor, innocent, so easily misled woman. It is not your fault when Judas men lead you astray, like a biddable sheep.

Precious Joanie, I’m coming for you soon. Soon—oh, so soon!—we will be together. My heart pounds in anticipation of seeing your beautiful, radiant smile. A smile just for me.

Soon, my beloved, I promise. Soon.

Until we meet again, my love,

Your Admirer From Afar

* * *

Chris suppressed a shudder as they peered into the tiny mesh-covered window in the thick steel door, but the scrawny, floppy-haired guy inside didn’t even look up, the tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he scribbled in an ice-blue notebook.

“Is that him?” he spoke in a whisper, still afraid the guy would notice.

“Yep,” his boss said laconically, snapping grape-scented bubblegum in Chris’s face. “That’s Rodney Kirkland. He still writes to her, you know.”

“What?” Chris stared at him, sure he must be joking. Patrick Carpenter nodded, blowing a light purple bubble.

“He doesn’t know that Joanie’s dead,” Patrick said. “He doesn’t know he killed her.”

Chris thought of the news reports—how Joanie Banyon had been strangled to death with a jump-rope, how Rodney had been found standing over her corpse, chanting “I love you! I love you!”—and shivered.

“Let’s get out of here,” Chris said and turned away.