In the Blood Read Online Free Page B

into my mouth as I was reliving the dream and wipe my lips over and over, to try and rid the foul taste of the whole experience.
    It’s revolting.
    He’s revolting.
    How could he do those things to such poor, defenseless kids?
    Does he feel no shame?
    Does he justify it to himself?
    I don’t understand.
    I. Do. Not. Understand.
    But I want to. I need to.
    Up until now, I’d been too scared to find out more. But after what Foster said, and now Dad’s letter, I have to. I throw off the comforter and head to my desk where I open my laptop and Google the word “pedophiles,” determined not to move until I know everything there is to know about them. All about their lives, their backgrounds, their families. Anything that will give me a handle on what makes someone act so inhumanely.
    Pacing up and down my bedroom floor, I glance across at my laptop, appearing so innocuous as it sits open on the desk. Except it’s anything but. Since early this morning, I’ve been flicking from one screen to another. Reading several times all the cases, tabloid speculation, and research, that I’d saved in both date and context order for future reference. Paying particular attention to pedophiles who are also serial killers.
    Trying to make sense of everything.
    Trying to make sense of what Dad did, and why he did it.
    It’s so scary. It really is.
    Pedophilia isn’t a curable condition. Once a pedophile, always a pedophile, whatever type you are. And, believe it or not, there are different types of pedophiles. My dad is the worst kind. A “sadistic pedophile:”
    Will travel far to gain access to his victim. Check.
    Intelligent. Check.
    Middle class. Check
    Ruthlessly abuses and sometimes kills his victim. Double check .
    And let’s not forget the OCD tendencies? They’re common among all types of pedophile. And Dad certainly verged on OCD, that’s for sure. Just like me. But just because I’m similar in that respect doesn’t mean I’m going to turn out like him. No way is Foster right about that.
    Oh, and get this, it’s common for them to hold down a really good job, so no one suspects them. How accurate is that? Dad was a pharmaceutical sales rep with a big company. The perfect job for a sadistic pedophile because he was away from home so often and he was very hard to keep track of. And he earned good money, had a big car, expense account, all that crap. And also true to type, he did a lot in the community. He was always first to volunteer down the homeless shelter or offer to help out if someone was having problems. Everyone’s friend. As normal as the next guy.
    Normal. What a fucking joke.
    I can’t believe we were all so dumb that not one of us knew, or even suspected that my dad was a textbook pedophile.
    Without warning, scalding tears burn the back of my eyes, and a couple force their way out despite trying to stop them. It feels like my head’s gonna explode. Why did this have to happen? Nothing’s ever gonna be the same again. I drop to the floor and rest my head on my knees. After a few seconds I angrily wipe the stray tears from my face with the back of my hand, annoyed with myself for acting like a girl, then jump up and lunge toward my closet.
    Opening the door, I fumble around in the corner until I find the bottle of vodka that I bought a while ago, using my fake ID. I haven’t drank much yet as I prefer beer. It’s strategically stashed under several layers of clothes strewn along the bottom. In a way, it’s good that Mom doesn’t come into my room anymore, because if she saw the mess in my closet, she’d know it was there for a purpose. I’m the tidiest person on the planet; no way would I normally have a closet like this. It took a long time for me to suppress the urge to tidy it every time I opened the door.
    I unscrew the cap and take a large swig. It burns my throat on the way down, and I start to cough. Glancing up at the clock, I realize it’s only ten in the morning, no wonder it’s hard to