The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  “I can’t.” I slammed the door in his face. How did he even know where I lived? How could he possibly know? I’d mentioned what bus I rode. Maybe one of the kids had told him. The nerve of him, though, to just show up. Fury bubbled inside, masked by an outpouring of tears.

  “Ruby,” Daddy said, but I didn’t answer. I dashed upstairs, slamming my bedroom door.

  I rocked back and forth, holding the pillow. Stupid girl. Why did you let him in? Why did you let him into your life? I don’t need anyone. I don’t. That boy could ruin everything.

  Daddy tried to talk to me. He said it was okay to have friends, but that I needed to be careful. He said that high school boys have one thing on their minds. Daddy’s talk made things so much worse.

  I didn’t want to talk about sex with him. I didn’t want to talk about Aaron. I would need to be more careful. I couldn’t have some stupid redheaded boy ruining it all. We had too much to lose.

  We have so much to lose.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 8, 2018

  9:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  Flowers are for graves. That’s what I told Aaron when he brought me a handful of wildflowers today to apologize. I don’t understand how flowers equate to an apology. I honestly don’t know why he even wants to speak with me again.

  Four minutes and thirty-eight seconds. That’s how long after I slammed the door in his face on Friday that he started up his truck and left. I wonder what he was doing in those four minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Did he peek in the garage? It wouldn’t matter. Daddy, thankfully, is a professional. He keeps it clean. He keeps it safe. Thank God he’s such a good man.

  Aaron apologized today and said he had been rude but that he hadn’t meant any harm. And get this Diary—he said he likes me. Really likes me. I mean, I know he must like me as a person because he still hasn’t stopped sitting with me.

  Clarissa has tried to lure him away. For weeks now, she shamelessly flirts with him in the hallways. She leans on his arm, wraps her red nails around his bicep, and flashes him that pearly smile. She tells him how I’m a weirdo and how I’m a freak and all sorts of things. Despite her best efforts, Aaron never budges. From the outside, it seems that Clarissa fails to entice him, something she’s not accustomed to. And when she’s horrible to me in class or in gym, Aaron steps in. He protects me. It makes me, if I’m being honest, like him, too.

  But I can never admit that. I get mad at myself for even thinking it. Because I can’t get distracted by some silly high school boy, no matter his hair color. What would Daddy think? He’s my priority. Aaron might be nice and he might bring me flowers, but Daddy needs me. Daddy has no one. I need to help him, to be there for him. How can I watch out for him if I’m off drinking milkshakes? How can I make sure he doesn’t drop a rag or help cover for him with Grandma if he needs it if I’m out with Aaron? I can’t be both Daddy’s protector and Aaron’s. I can’t.

  I’ve thought about what it might be like to let Aaron in. He’s one of the only people in this world I actually enjoy being around. He makes me feel safe at school, safe from the accusatory eyes and horrible comments and Clarissa. Maybe he would be a good protector of Daddy. But that’s crazy talk, wild fantasy talk. This is no fairy tale, and Aaron’s no knight riding in to save the day. Knights slay dragons, after all, and Daddy is a bloodthirsty dragon of the skilled variety.

  Plus, Aaron’s family is different than mine. He has a mom and a dad who look quite dull. Aaron’s dad works with Daddy, but he’s scrawny and quiet looking. I saw him once in town when Daddy and I were getting groceries. And Aaron’s mom is a bank teller. Talk about boring. They’re the kind of parents who have dinner on the table at exactly six o’clock, who go to church and bowling for fun as a family. They’re the kind who wouldn’t understand the garage game or Daddy’s moods or my differences, not at all.

  If he knew about Daddy, he’d think Daddy was a bad guy. He wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t see it how I do. And it’s not like I have the words to make him understand. I could never help him see Daddy’s true goodness, the brilliant man I know and love. Aaron wouldn’t understand Daddy and, thus, he couldn’t fully understand me.

  I think that’s why the kids think I’m weird. I think Daddy is different than anyone they know. I think maybe no other kids know secrets about their parents like I do. I think it sets me apart. I’m different, like I’ve always been. But like Daddy says, different isn’t bad. It just is.

  Daddy just is who he is, too. I love him for it. Other people, though, probably couldn’t. I’ve experienced firsthand what happens and how people treat you when you’re a little bit different than them. I don’t want Daddy to experience any of that if he doesn’t have to.

  Even though it’s all complicated, I can’t lie. Aaron and his flowers made me smile. I carried Aaron’s flowers around all day. It felt good to have something from him. Not that I could admit it. Clarissa glared at me all day. I don’t know if she likes Aaron or if she just doesn’t like him liking me.

  When I got home, Daddy put the flowers in water. He sighed. I could tell he was worried. He rubbed his chin a lot and crinkled his forehead as he stared at them. It probably doesn’t help that today is the really tough day for Daddy, the day Mama killed herself. I thought about telling Daddy that we could put the flowers on Mama’s grave, wondering if maybe that would cheer him up. I don’t like the thought of sharing the flowers with Mama, but I’d do it for Daddy’s sake. Before I could suggest it, though, Daddy spoke up.

  “Be careful, Ruby. Sometimes people aren’t as good as they seem.” That was all he said. I know he worries that I’ll be taken advantage of. I know sometimes I don’t read people or situations well. It’s part of what makes me different. I know Daddy is worried about that.

  I just wish Daddy knew that I’m not as naïve as I seem. I know a lot. A whole lot more than most kids about being careful and about appearances. I know what people are capable of, what he’s capable of.

  I’m not scared. Because I know that deep down in me, there’s a part of Daddy lurking. I can bring it to the surface if I need to. I’m smart and I’m capable and I’m a professional, just like him. No one will hurt me because I know how to hurt them back.

  Don’t worry, Daddy, I want to say. You’ve taught your daughter well.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 12, 2018

  2:57 a.m.

  Dear Diary,

  Ever since Aaron’s been around, the killing’s been more intense and frequent. And for the first time, Diary, I’m truly, completely convinced Daddy’s going to get caught. He’s getting sloppy. Really, really sloppy.

  Daddy’s constantly in the garage now, at least once a week. This week it’s been more. He’s down there now, sawing away. I thought about going down, for old time’s sake. But honestly, Diary, I’m scared. I wish I wasn’t. But something’s changed.

  It’s in the way his eyes look at the breakfast table. Usually, after a night in the garage, he’s calmer. He’s always a little tired and shaky, but there’s still a release in his eyes. Now, though, I see something else. It’s almost like an insatiable quality, an unquenchable thirst. His eyes scream out for more, even when his hands can’t keep up.

  The worst part of it? I think it’s my fault.

  Ever since Aaron’s shown up, Daddy’s been more intense, more frequent in his kills. He asks me more questions, and I heard him talking to Grandma the other day about how he’s worried I have a boyfriend.

  Grandma was thrilled. “It’s a good thing. At least she won’t die a helpless old maid. And if he’s a nice young man, which if he’s bringing her flowers, he probably is, then he could keep an eye on her. Wouldn’t it be good for her to move out and have her own life? Then you could have yours back,” she’d said as I listened upstairs. I had squeezed my hands, wanting to wring her neck. How dare her imply I was holding Daddy back!

  “I guess,” he’d said glumly. “Bu
t I worry about her. I hate the idea of not being able to keep her safe. And so help me, if that boy so much as touches her wrong . . .” Daddy had barked through gritted teeth.

  It felt good that Daddy was looking out for me, but it scared me, too. I didn’t want Daddy to hurt Aaron. I didn’t want Aaron to end up on Daddy’s table. But I also didn’t want to have someone else to protect.

  Daddy’s been different around me. I want to shout and tell him I’m still the same Ruby, that nothing has changed. I’m not interested in a life with Aaron or even a milkshake. He doesn’t need to worry. But it’s October, a hard month for Daddy anyway. And I think the added pressure isn’t helping. I think he’s worried about what’s going to happen to me—and the garage ladies are paying for his heightened anxieties. I feel bad for what I’m doing to Daddy. Sometimes I wish I’d never met Aaron. Things were easier when he wasn’t around, when I was all alone.

  I understand why Daddy is struggling. Change is hard. I’m probably the person who understands that best of all. Still, Daddy needs to be careful. He’s going to make a mistake if he’s not. Even professionals can mess up sometimes.

  Daddy isn’t going as far away, for one thing. I notice his truck isn’t gone for very long. Plus, on the news the other night, the prostitute who was missing was from only ten minutes away. He needs to be cautious. And two nights ago, when he was in the garage and I watched, he messed up again.

  This time was worse than the rag, Diary. It was a shoe.

  A shoe! How could he be so clumsy, so foolish? He’d walked off and left it, the black stiletto marking the entrance to the woods. It was like a red flashing sign for someone to see. It may as well have been a yellow brick road leading everyone down to Daddy’s demented version of Oz. I’d rushed out from my spot and snatched the shoe while Daddy was gone. I shoved it with the rag from before. Thank goodness I was home to take care of these things. It was just more proof that I couldn’t let anyone else in, least of all Aaron. I was Daddy’s, and that was that. I had a duty to him.

  I just hope Daddy gets it together and slows down. Haste makes waste, that’s what Grandma always says when I’m forced to help her in the kitchen making pies. I hate that saying, but I think she might be right when it comes to the recipes Daddy’s following. I can’t wait for October to be over because usually he slows down then and gets a hold on his emotions.

  And I’m worried because it seems like the town is catching on that something isn’t right, that women are disappearing in odd patterns. The news today mentioned another missing woman. The anchor said something about a suspected serial killer. It was so strange to hear Daddy called that. It scares me because if they start to put it together, to investigate—could this be the end of the game for Daddy? Could he get caught in a trap that he set for himself?

  It chills me to think how close it all is to crashing down around us. I wish I could ask him to slow down, to stop. But I know that it is who he is, and I have to love him anyway. Just like he loves me.

  Still, I can’t afford for him to keep dropping items because pretty soon, I’ll need a bigger hiding place for all of his collectibles. You know?

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 13, 2018

  9:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I’m starting to worry more and more about the man I call Daddy. I’m feeling like maybe I don’t know him like I thought I did, like maybe he’s different. Or maybe I really am naïve.

  Daddy went out tonight. Again. What’s he thinking? His eyes are bloodshot and he clearly needs rest. Luckily, he came back a few minutes ago—emptyhanded. He seemed angry and was shaking all over. His face was scowling as he told me he was tired and going to bed.

  I was thankful. Sad that he was upset but grateful that I wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning up after him, at least for tonight. Because I have other things to think about, Diary. After what I found, my mind needs time to just think.

  When he left tonight, I was bored. I was thinking about that time I went in Daddy’s bedroom, thinking about the books in there. I was curious about what other books he had. I was thinking about the poison book especially. Maybe, just maybe, I could study up and make my killing game a little different—if I decided to make my own killing game someday. Poison seemed fun. After all, I’m good at chemistry. I like the exactness of it all, the specific recipes and numbers. It all adds up if you do it just right. I imagined poisons to be similar, rule-following concoctions.

  It was a risk to go in Daddy’s room. After all, his schedule was sporadic now. He could be back in ten minutes. And his mood was dark. If he found me in there again, I was certain I would end up dead.

  It was a risk that felt worth it, though, if for no other reason than for the fact that I was just so intrigued by the idea of poison making. Sure, I could Google it—but I wanted to learn from the master. Daddy’s poison book was undoubtedly tried and true, and there was nothing quite like having a real book in your hands.

  So I’d crept into his room, his sanctuary. I felt sort of dirty being in there, like a snake. But I just wanted to look. I just wanted to know what Daddy knew, after all. It would be okay, wouldn’t it? When I got to the room and glanced at the familiar bookshelf, though, my eyes wandered. I told myself to follow the rules, to only look at the one book and then leave. I told myself Daddy would be so furious to find out I was in there again. I shivered, thinking of the last encounter we had when I was caught in his room. It was a dangerous game I was playing, and I knew it.

  I couldn’t discourage myself, though. My eyes fell on the drawer on the little desk. There were two drawers, scuffed and worn. For some reason, the right-hand drawer caught my eye. Maybe because Daddy was right-handed.

  I squeaked the drawer open, telling myself I would just take a peek. But the drawer was so neat and orderly. It was awe-inspiring, really, even though the contents were quite dull. A few old utility bills on the right-hand side in a stack. A few expired driver’s licenses of Daddy’s on the left. A stack of cash peeking out from an envelope in the back of the drawer, and some empty notepads with the name of the company Daddy works for at the top.

  I picked up the notepad, feeling the paper under my fingers, wanting to flip through and see if Daddy is a writer, too. And that’s when I saw it. Underneath the memo pad, right there for any snooping eyes to see.

  An envelope. Yellow. Unassuming.

  I was intrigued.

  I dug my hand in, the feel of glossy photo paper exciting me.

  Just one photograph in the average-looking envelope.

  I pulled it out, curious. Was it a photo of me that Daddy kept safe? Another wedding photo like the one I had in my room? I flipped it over, gasping at the sight.

  At first, I almost didn’t recognize the woman in the photo. Her pallid skin, her dangling body. But then, slowly, recognition clicked.

  Mama, in all her glory, looked back at me. Her red hair drooped forward, covering part of her face and one of her bulging eyes. Her pink sleepshirt hung in an uninspiring fashion. It looked baggy and sad on her, like a tent. Her feet were bare, hanging well above the spotless garage floor.

  The noose was wrapped around her neck, hanging from the beam I’d seen Daddy use so many times before. I stared at the final photograph of my mother, my mind racing. Why would Daddy take that photograph? Why would Daddy keep it?

  I’d seen Daddy take this very photograph through the years. Over and over, he’d snap the photograph and flick his wrist to develop it as he stared into the bulging, dead faces in the killing game. But I’d never imagined Daddy had a similar photo of Mama. Why would he take that photo? Why would he want to keep it? Was it because, like me, he was fascinated by the final photograph of her? My finger traced the photograph as my mind wandered. That could be it. That could be logical.

  But another thought oozed in. I tried to strangle it, to tie a noose around it. I didn’t want a photograph of the thought. I wanted to forget it.

  Mama’s dia
ry entries snuck in, polluting my mind. It didn’t make sense. How could she write that—but then not carry through her plan? And why would Daddy take the photograph? Why would he re-enact that moment over and over? And was the photograph the only part he was re-enacting?

  My Daddy is a killer. He killed Mama.

  The thought wormed its way out of the apple in my brain, taunting me with its slimy, eerie texture. No. Impossible. Daddy couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. Not to Mama, the woman he loved so much. She wouldn’t be a part of the killing game. That would be against the rules. Wouldn’t it be? No. Maybe. I don’t know.

  I rocked back and forth, engraving the photograph in my mind before carefully tucking it back in place, just as it was. I double and triple checked to make sure Daddy wouldn’t know I had been in his room again. I thought about stealing it, so I could look at it later. I thought about hiding it better—after all, what if Grandma came snooping or someone else? He wasn’t being careful enough. Still, something told me to leave it be. Something told me that Daddy revisited the photograph often, especially in October, the anniversary month of Mama’s death.

  Something also told me that all those “I’m sorry” statements at Mama’s grave and scrawled on the photographs weren’t a coincidence. The question became: Did I really think Daddy had something to be sorry about? The words of my dead Mama drifted in and out of my mind randomly.

  No.

  He had nothing to be sorry about. Nothing at all. Not after what she’d planned on doing.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 16, 2018

  9:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  We all have our obsessions. Daddy and mine happens to be death these days.

  He’s still busy in the garage. If he isn’t killing or out looking for his next plaything, he’s in there cleaning and organizing. Which leaves me with a lot of time to think. I’ve, of course, been thinking a lot about Mama and the state of things.