The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,84

“Patty? Girls? What do you think?”

Patricia didn’t say a word. She knew it didn’t matter what she thought anymore.

“I think that’s a yes,” Carter said.

CHAPTER 22

Patricia didn’t want to talk that night, and Carter had the good sense not to push it. She went to bed early. Carter thought nothing was wrong? Let him worry about Korey and Blue. Let him feed them and keep them safe. Downstairs she heard him go out and bring back take-out Chinese for the kids, and the buzzing rise and fall of A Serious Conversation filtered up from the dining room. After Korey and Blue went to bed, Carter slept on the den sofa.

The next morning, she saw Destiny Taylor’s picture in the paper and read the story with numb acceptance. The nine-year-old had waited until it was her turn in the bathroom of her foster home, then took dental floss, wrapped it around her neck over and over, and hanged herself from the towel rack. The police were investigating whether it might be abuse.

“I’d like to speak to you in the dining room,” Carter said from the door to the den.

Patricia looked up from the paper. Carter needed to shave.

“That child killed herself,” she said. “The one we told you about, Destiny Taylor, she killed herself just like we warned you she would.”

“Patty, from where I’m standing, we stopped a lynch mob from running an innocent man out of town.”

“It was the woman whose trailer you came to in Six Mile,” Patricia said. “You saw that little girl. Nine years old. Why does a nine-year-old child kill herself? What could make her do that?”

“Our children need you,” Carter said. “Do you see what your book club has done to Blue?”

“My book club?” she asked, off balance.

“The morbid things y’all read,” Carter said. “Did you see the videotapes on top of the TV? He got Night and Fog from the library. It’s Holocaust footage. That’s not what a normal ten-year-old boy looks at.”

“A nine-year-old girl hanged herself with dental floss and you won’t even bother to ask why,” Patricia said. “Imagine if that was your last memory of Blue—hanging from the towel rod, floss cutting into his neck—”

“Jesus Christ, Patty, where’d you learn to talk this way?”

He walked into the dining room. Patricia thought about not following, then realized that this wouldn’t end until they’d played out every single moment Carter had planned. She got up and followed. The morning sun made the yellow walls of the dining room glow. Carter stood facing her from the other end of the table, hands behind his back, one of her everyday saucers in front of him.

“I realize I bear some of the responsibility for how bad things have gotten,” he said. “You’ve been under a great deal of stress from what happened with my mother, and you never properly processed the trauma of being injured. I let the fact that you’re my wife cloud my judgment and I missed the symptoms.”

“Why are you treating me like this?” she asked.

He ignored her, continuing his speech.

“You live an isolated life,” Carter said. “Your reading tastes are morbid. Both your children are going through difficult phases. I have a high-pressure job that requires me to put in long hours. I didn’t realize how close to the edge you were.”

He picked up the saucer, carried it to her end of the table, and set it down with a click. A green-and-white capsule rolled around in the center.

“I’ve seen this turn people’s lives around,” Carter said.

“I don’t want it,” she said.

“It’ll help you regain your equilibrium,” he said.

She pinched the capsule between her thumb and forefinger. Dista Prozac was printed on the side.

“And I have to take it or you’ll leave me?” she asked.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Carter said. “I’m offering you help.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a white bottle. It rattled when he set it on the table.

“One pill, twice a day, with food,” he said. “I’m not