Is there anything creepier than a first-person account of a psychopath justifying his murders?
"Her husband's money would be thrown away for drinks and her body would wither slowly between a hundred rumpled bedsheets. Rena would end up a drunken old floosie. Nobody gave a damn if she lived or died. The reader wouldn't care.
I didn't care.
I was sick of sponging off her, sick of keeping her amused.
I was sick of the road, sick of the fast ramble, sick of writing with a stub pencil on stolen letterheads in dingy rooms.
Put them together. Add ten years of living on the lam, riding empties, doing it the hard way. Throw in that ache - not loneliness, not ambition, but something else - the ache to tell somebody about it, put it down in writing and make it mean something. Yes, and multiply the factors, all the factors. I knew Rena had money stuffed away all around the apartment. I knew she was friendless. I knew it didn't matter what became of her.
Put them all together. And what do they spell?
Exactly what happened.