Jon Athan - Am I Beautiful?

He wrote the confession out of guilt. He felt bad for attacking Miki, and now coffins filled with innocent victims were piling up on his shoulders. Confessing was the honest, honorable thing to do. The truth often sent criminals to prison, but it also set people free from their physical and mental shackles. He knew it would help him in the long run, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his family.

What happens if I go to prison? How could Riley grow up strong and healthy knowing her father was a monster? Would Amber be able to forgive me? What if I’m wrong? What if it’s not her?

Those questions screwed with his head. He dug his fingers into his hair and sniveled. Then he clenched his fists, grabbing two handfuls of hair, and he groaned.

“I can’t do this,” he whimpered.

He closed the confession, deleted it, and then emptied his trash bin. He kept the anonymous letter—just in case.

He heard Riley’s laughter outside. He rolled back in his chair and looked out the window next to his bookshelves. Past the covered patio and the stone barbecue station, he saw Amber playing with Riley in their backyard. Amber spotted him watching them, so she waved at him, then she turned Riley around and pointed at the house. Adam couldn’t hear her voice, but he had an idea of what she was saying.

‘ Look, there’s daddy. ’

Riley couldn’t see him, but she saw the blinds shifting as Adam moved away from the window. Annoyed and disappointed, Amber rolled her eyes. She saw Adam as a hermit. They were advised to stay home, but Adam had been taking the quarantine to another level. He had been isolating himself in his office since he first found out about the serial killings. He came out for a bite to eat every once in a while, but he didn’t say much to Amber or Riley. He spent a couple of nights in his office, too.

Amber imagined he was sleeping on his recliner with a business textbook under his pillow in hopes of conjuring a brilliant idea. Some people called it ‘learning by osmosis.’ In reality, although he did sleep on his recliner, Adam spent most of the nights watching his backyard and the street in front of his house. He believed Miki—or someone or something —was coming for him. He couldn’t get the target off his back.

He opened his web browser. He read the message from Mickey Miller again.

‘ Am I beautiful? ’

He saw those words every time he closed his eyes, as if they were tattooed to his inner eyelids—scarred on his retinas. His hands ended up on the keyboard. He wanted to respond, but he didn’t know what to write. He was sure it was coming from Miki, though. He remembered comparing the pronunciation of her name to Mickey Mouse when they first met. And Miller was his last name.

“Mickey Miller,” he said. “Is that supposed to be your ‘English name?’ Is that it?”

He heard a loud click . He looked up from his iMac and saw his door swing open an inch. She’s here, he thought. He pushed himself back until his chair hit the wall behind him. He searched for a weapon—nothing to his left, nothing to his right. He grabbed his wireless keyboard. Just as he went to lift it over his shoulder, the door opened all the way.

Amber stood in the doorway, a key in her hand. She was surprised to see her husband holding a keyboard in his hands like a weapon.

“You okay?” she asked.

Adam put the keyboard on his desk and asked, “Can’t you knock?”

“I did. I knocked. I called out to you. You didn’t respond, so I got worried.”

“Yeah? I guess I, uh… I didn’t hear you. I’m just busy.”

“With what?”

Adam closed the web browser so Amber wouldn’t get suspicious if she approached him. He looked at his corkboard. He had pinned more index cards to it, each filled with more details concerning the murders. Some of the index cards detailed rumors circulating on social media. Some teenagers in the area referred to Miki as ‘Scarface,’ others called her ‘Carved Face.’

Adam lowered his head and said, “Just busy.”

Amber leaned against the doorway and asked, “You start writing that book yet?”

“No. I think I’m going to write a movie instead.”

“Yeah?” Amber responded with a slight smile.

“ Yes .”

The room became quiet for a moment. The smile was wiped off Amber’s face.

Adam asked, “Did you need something from me?”

“Yeah… I mean, no, but I’m making lunch and I was wondering if you’d like to join us. Well, if you’re not busy with your movie.”

“Don’t mock me, Amber.”

“What? You just said you were—”

“I know what I said. I just don’t need your sarcasm right now.”

“I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic. I could be more enthusiastic— more caring —if you’d actually talk to me for once. What am I supposed to say? And how am I supposed to say it?”

Adam raised his palm out at her but kept his head down. He said, “Just forget it. I’ll be out in fifteen minutes. Maybe thirty. Can you give me thirty minutes to myself?”

Amber was ready to argue, but she felt the defeat in Adam’s voice. She was afraid Adam might have been depressed, and she was well aware of the ruthless power of depression. It was a mental poison—cancer of the soul. She couldn’t help him by fighting him.

She said, “I’ll make sandwiches. We’ll be in the kitchen.”

Adam waited until she closed the door to thank her. He opened his web browser again and continued his investigation. It took him less than ten minutes to find an article titled: Nine-year-old boy found dead in April Fool’s Day murder . He connected it to the recent serial murders and, according to the article, so did the police.

He felt a sense of comfort in knowing the police were on Miki’s trail. At the same time, another concern popped into his head. What happens if she gets caught? Will she tell them about me? —he thought. A disturbing realization dawned on him: The truth lived as long as Miki lived. It was possible to run from the truth, but the only way to destroy it was to kill it—to kill everyone who knew it.

On the verge of tears, he filled out another index card and pinned it to his corkboard. Hands on his hips, he read his timeline of events. The murders had sickened him at first, but he grew detached. The victims stopped mattering. He was obsessed with the suspect—and only the suspect. He searched for a clue that could reveal Miki’s identity without his confession.

He squinted and muttered, “Wait a second.”

He printed a map of Los Angeles and hung it up on the corkboard. Then he grabbed a jar of colorful thumbtacks from his desk.

Pressing a thumbtack into each location as he read them off, he said, “Griffith Park… Skid Row… Huntington Park… Compton.”

Then he took two steps back and reviewed the map. Connecting the thumbtacks, he noticed the killer was moving southwest. He pointed at Compton, then he slowly dragged his finger to his left. He stopped on Manhattan Beach—his neighborhood.

“She’s coming for me,” he said in awe.

His breath came out in short puffs, his legs shook, and his head swayed. He wobbled back until he crashed into his desk. He grabbed his cell phone and started dialing 911, but he stopped before he could press the big green CALL button at the bottom of his screen. He wasn’t ready to explain his situation to the police. He wanted them to protect him and his family, but he didn’t want to tell them why.

He looked at the window to his right. Through the blinds, he could see the brick partition separating his property from his neighbor’s. He heard something rustling out there.