The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  His mother isn’t helping things, either. Always accusing me of being a bad mother, a bad wife. Her son is an angel in her eyes. I wonder what she’d say if she could see him now.

  I should be scared. I am. But I’m more scared, I suppose, of being right and having to figure a way out of this mess than I am scared of him right now.

  I’m just so tired. So tired of everything.

  Be True,

  Caroline

  The Diary of Caroline Marlowe

  October 7, 2004

  Life is a fucking mess. I don’t even know why I’m writing this.

  I was never cut out to be a mother. I told him I wanted to terminate the pregnancy when I found out, but he wouldn’t have it. He said we’d make it work. We’d be a family. I agreed.

  But that was before I found out I was married to a fucking psychopath. It was before I gave birth to a daughter who has now been showing signs of severe developmental issues. The doctors say they have an idea of what it is, but we can’t be certain until she ages a bit. I don’t need a fucking doctor or a therapist to tell me that there’s something wrong with my daughter. I also don’t need to find the body to know that my husband is most definitely a killer, and that I could be next.

  Life is a shitshow. My mother was right. She always said that.

  I don’t know a way out of this. I could take off on my own, but I don’t feel right doing that. It’s not that I have a strong mothering instinct, that’s for sure. Then again, who could blame me? It’s not like my daughter’s normal or easy to love. Still, there must be some kind of undeniable chemistry or natural tendency. Because no matter how badly I want to, I can’t leave knowing she’ll be stuck with her psychopath of a father. Even I can’t do that.

  So what to do?

  There is something wrong with him. Severely wrong.

  There is something severely wrong with the child.

  There is something severely wrong with me, in truth.

  The way I see it now, I have two options.

  I leave with her and never come back.

  I kill us both.

  Either way, I think it’s safe to say this.

  Things will never be the same.

  Epilogue

  Never the same indeed, the Prosecutor thinks as he looks at the last pages that have been tagged in evidence. So many were never going to be the same now. Caroline, the women slaughtered. Everyone assumed she’d committed suicide. How didn’t they see it? And Ruby, the daughter. How could he have done this to her? What father could ruin their child so badly and still sleep at night? Of course, he hadn’t slept at night, not every night at least.

  The Prosecutor pats his trustworthy dog, Sita, on the head as he sets aside the copy of the final piece of evidence. Stroking the majestic dog’s fur, his mind struggles to focus. It’s all been too much. The retired working dog rests its muzzle on him as if to comfort him. In truth, he needs it. Because, despite his smug, confident face he puts on for the media, he got no satisfaction from the case. They’ll obviously win. They have more evidence than the court would know what to do with. The diary of this serial killer’s daughter outlined it all. The dates. The times. His methods. All of which they could corroborate. Ruby had made their job so much easier. Thank God the girl had left the evidence out on her desk before they had left town. She’d presented it on a silver platter. Did the girl want them to know the truth? It helped that her obsession with time seemed spot on, too.

  But he still wondered what would happen to Ruby. A piece of him felt sorry for her. She’d killed a girl, it was true. But could she really be blamed? Look at what she’d been raised in, who she had been raised by. She’d convinced herself she was protecting her father, the man she worshipped.

  How could he not have known that his daughter was watching him the whole time? How didn’t he know? And to think the monster had ruined his little girl, the child he proclaimed to love so much.

  He worried the courts would try to go soft on her because of everything she’d been through. Her condition, the loss of her mother, living with a fucked-up man for a father.

  Still, no life is perfect. And everyone is a product of their environment—to an extent. People still choose, in the end. And she chose the killing game. She chose to follow in her father’s footsteps, even though they had evidence she thought it was wrong. She’d written it all out for them, spelled out that she was of sane mind. She knew right from wrong, despite her condition. Despite her upbringing. She felt guilt. And she’d even premeditated it all. She knew the killing game was wrong. But she wasn’t only an accessory to her father’s crimes—she committed her own.

  It wasn’t easy, though, taking the rest of her life. In truth, jail was probably the best place for her. Because once you’re that marred by the sights she saw, what help is there? What hope of rehabilitation existed for Ruby?

  None. Absolutely none. They were all fucked indeed.

  In truth, a confession wasn’t even needed. It was all right there. They of course had the evidence, too. Ruby’s bloody clothes she’d left in the shed, covered in Clarissa’s blood. The bodies, all perfectly buried in the field. All but Caroline Marlowe’s.

  To his credit, he’d tried to protect his daughter, even up to the end. He tried to take the credit for Clarissa’s death, even though it was pointless. They had the evidence to convict Ruby. Still, he was willing to do that for his daughter. Just like he’d told them repeatedly, through tears, that he’d tried to stop. That he’d set the game aside for months, even years at points because he knew he needed to be there for his daughter. It was clear that even though the sick bastard was a monster, he loved his daughter in his own way. In his mind, he tried to do right by her—he just succumbed to the darkness within.

  Even serial killers had some standards, it seemed.

  It was a shame that she was ruined. So many chances to turn things around, to go a different path than her father. What could have changed it? Could anything have changed her? So many lives ruined by one senseless freak. Wasn’t that how it always was, though?

  The trial started tomorrow. A piece of him felt sorry for the girl. But then he remembered what she’d done. They would throw the book at her, He was sure of it. A girl was dead because of her. A vicious murder.

  Still, he wondered sometimes if things could have been different. With a different mother, a different father, a different life. Who could she have become?

  It was the age-old question so many asked. But Ruby would never know.

  Nor would he.

  The prosecutor shoved aside his stack of copies, all the diary entries perfectly flagged. All of the damning words prepared, all of the corroborating evidence stacked in piles.

  Ruby and her father were done for. There was no doubt. It was a certain win for him—but really, in a case like this, no one won. No one won anything at all.

  Spatters of dust, flickered about

  Spatters of red, glimmering too

  Seething and bubbling,

  Her hands start to shake

  Where is the justice,

  When will it come?

  She is the dove, speckled but white

  He is the God, awaiting deliverance

  Peace she will bring

  But rest she will not.

  All is clean

  For now

  October 1, 2039

  3:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I think my poetry is lacking now. It’s a shame. Of course, there’s no one to tell me whether it’s good or bad. But how couldn’t it be worse? It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, since I’ve witnessed his work. It depresses me. It angers me. But mostly, it saddens me.

  I miss him. I miss him so much. Is this how he felt when Mama left?

  I know it’s his fault, the missing of her. He did it. He killed her. I can still hear him saying those words, pinning me up against the wall as he cleared from his chest what I’d known all along. He killed Mama.

  Of course, he
killed all those other women, too. All but one.

  The court made him out to seem like a bad man. But I know the truth. He wasn’t bad. He was good. He loved me, really loved me. He would do anything to protect me from the darkness of Mama, of the world, and even of himself. His killing game kept the nefarious side of him contained to the garage. It helped him, I think, be a better father to me. I’m forever thankful.

  I often think of the night it all went down, the night we got caught. I think of all that led up to the year that changed everything—Aaron, Clarissa, and the dark urges that were stirring more and more in Daddy.

  The night it all ended, we’d been watching television in the room. The police pulled up to the motel, their lights flashing outside. But it was too late. We’d been lulled into feeling safe, and we didn’t see the end coming. I was writing a poem on my bed in the motel, smiling at how I’d finally written something happy. By the time the pounding was happening, it was too late. I hid in the bathroom like Daddy told me to, hoping it would all disappear. We’d made it out of town, had two glorious weeks of travelling and seeing things I’d never thought I would see. In those two weeks on the run, we didn’t even need the killing game to be happy. I got to see a different side of Daddy, of me, and I got to see all the possibilities I’d never even considered for a different life.

  But it all came crashing down, like life always does. They’d traced us thanks to an anonymous tip, and the serial killer of our old town was finally in handcuffs after a lengthy fight with a knife. I was so afraid Daddy would get hurt. I remember Daddy’s look of fear when they yanked me out of the bathroom. The handcuffs on my wrists, the cars surrounding us. The tears from Daddy’s eyes as he fought to get me back, to save me.

  I think about his selfless confession about Clarissa’s death—even though he didn’t do it. But when he saw me, when he saw my tears, I think he knew. I think he knew that the accusations were true, and I think finally after all that time, he realized that his secret life hadn’t been so secret at all. It had seeped into his daughter, into her heart and her desires.

  Bruised apples never fall far, and poisonous ones don’t fall any distance at all.

  The look in his eyes as he saw his daughter, me, in a new light, sent chills right through me. It still does. If only I’d have told him sooner, maybe he could’ve saved us both.

  Did he figure it out then, that his secret wasn’t safe? Did he have a moment of realization then, that I’d known all along? That I’d learned from the best?

  That night was terrible. I was so scared. I had no idea what to expect in prison. I missed Daddy. I hated being away from him. But there was worse to come. Like how when the police found Clarissa’s body, they discovered all the others. My choice wrecked Daddy’s killing game. My choice got us caught. The knowledge of that was still the worst thing that’s ever wrecked into my brain.

  And it was even worse. Like how my diaries were used as evidence. Like how I realized that my words, my writing helped put not just me away—but Daddy too. It must have almost killed him—the betrayal. I still shake when I think about it. I was so upset when I realized it, that I stopped writing. I stopped writing for a long, long time.

  I failed him. He did nothing but protect me and I failed him. He got caught because of me. He spent the rest of his life in prison because of me. He died there—because of me.

  I killed him, too. I killed the only person I ever loved, the only person who ever truly loved me back. I am alone now, all, all alone.

  It would have been better if Daddy had killed me, had put me in the field. At least I wouldn’t have been alone. I’d have had all those women beside me. I wish he’d have buried me next to the redheads. I liked them the best.

  I found out later that it was twenty-seven. Twenty-seven women buried in the field. Twenty-seven prostitutes and drifters that he slaughtered, that they unearthed. I’m only mad that I think I missed a couple. How did I miss a couple? Maybe I was young when they happened. I don’t know. But I wish I had seen them all.

  I can still picture their splatters, the paintings they made on the floor. Everyone made it sound so ugly. The other prisoners, my lawyer, everyone. They tried to make Daddy a villain. If only they had been there. If only they had seen.

  He’d made them masterpieces, all of the beautiful, bloody masterpieces.

  I’ve started writing again. I know that it can’t hurt anything now. I write to Daddy sometimes. I can’t send the letter of course. He won’t get it. But I still write and tell him how I am. I just miss him. It’s hard without him. It’s so hard.

  But I do like it here. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. I like the solitude. I’ve always liked being alone. I wasn’t always alone, of course. When I first got here, it was overwhelming. All the women around, all the questions and harassment and all of the interactions. It was too much. I was overloaded. The fluorescent lights and the yelling and the banging and the talking. I hated it. On the third night, I tried to bash my head in on the bars when my cellmate wouldn’t stop singing. Too loud. Too loud. Always too loud.

  The court system apparently decided I would do better in a quieter part of the jail. Alone. It was safer for everyone.

  So here I am alone, finally alone.

  They tell me in five years, I could be eligible for parole. I don’t know how or why that works, but I guess that’s the deal the lawyer got for me. I was told it was a bad deal, that I shouldn’t have spent this long here. But I don’t mind. Like I said, it’s quiet. And what is there to go back to? Daddy’s not out there anyways. I don’t know what will happen to me if I get to leave her. Grandma’s dead, after all, and I don’t have any friends. Maybe they’ll just let me stay here. Sometimes I wonder about Aaron, and where he might be. I wonder what his life is like. I’ve never seen him, not since that final time at the school. I wonder if he became a lawyer. I wonder if he helps lock up people like me and Daddy.

  They should have been lenient and took mercy, my lawyer said. Because of Daddy and my upbringing. Because of my condition. But this was the best I could do because Clarissa’s death was premeditated. It seems a little unfair. How about all of the things she did to me premeditated? At least I know she’ll never do them again to me or anyone else.

  I feel sorry that what I did got Daddy and me in trouble. I don’t feel sorry for killing her though. The guilt has subsided with time. It’s faded right into place.

  Some things are still bad here. They don’t let me pick what to eat, so some days it’s hard. I hate certain textures, still. When I think about skipping meals, though, I think of Daddy. I think of him telling me that it’s good to try new things and to be flexible. I try really hard to be. I want to make him proud. I wish I had him here with me. All I have is a picture of him. A smiling picture of us. I’m wearing my red rainboots, and you can see the red bracelet I made him on his wrist. Best friends. Always. Forever. Grandma took the photo. It’s an instant picture. It’s the same camera Daddy used to take his pictures. Sometimes I wish I had those, too, just so I could remember those days.

  Grandma brought me the photo after I was sentenced. She would visit me in the early days. She was always weeping though and saying it was her fault, that she knew something was wrong. That she knew she shouldn’t have let Daddy take care of me alone. I hated that she made it about her, as always. I eventually stopped taking her visits.

  It took a while until my therapist I see agreed to let me have a journal again and writing utensils. She made it part of my rehabilitation. The agreement is she has to be allowed to read this diary, though. That’s the promise. I’m okay with that. There’s nothing to hide now. All the secrets are out.

  When she let me have the markers, I picked red. Always red. After all, it’s my favorite color. Daddy’s too.

  Red like my hair.

  Red like apples.

  Red like all the blood on his hands . . . and on mine.

  I don’t know how many more days I have here, but when I get out, the first thing
I’m going to do? I’m going to my tree to write more poetry. Because even though Daddy is long gone, I still remember. I still remember all his secrets, all the things he taught me.

  So until then, Diary, I’ll write and I’ll keep time and I’ll wait.

  I’ll wait until I can make it all clean again. There’s nothing you can’t wipe clean, after all. Daddy taught me that, and I’ll never stop believing that he was brilliant.

  Because he was strangely, darkly brilliant, no matter what the courts say.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I want to thank my amazing husband for encouraging me to finish this novel and to send it out into the world to be read. You are my rock and my biggest cheerleader. Thank you for believing in my dreams and in my stories even when I’m struggling to find my confidence. I love you.

  I want to thank Jenny Heinlein for always lending a reader’s ear to my stories, for reading my books early, and for being such an amazing friend.

  There are so many friends and family members who have been there for me along the way on this journey. I want to thank all of you who have supported me from day one and helped me chase these dreams. I especially want to thank my parents, Ken and Lori, for teaching me that words are power. Thank you to my in-laws, Tom and Diane, for always supporting my dreams. Thank you to my Grandma Bonnie for showing up at all of my events and spreading the word about my stories. Thank you to Christie James for being such an amazing friend and co-worker. I also want to give a special shoutout to Alicia Schmouder and Kay Shuma for being there from day one supporting my books.

  There are so many bookstore owners, bloggers, and readers out there who I am so thankful for. Thank you to each and every single one of you.

  Thank you, reader, for taking a chance on a small-town girl with a big dream. It’s still surreal to see my books in others’ hands and to know other people are reading about the characters who have haunted me for so long.