She is hard to look at now: her skin is no longer perfect, but rather torn silk. The blood pools around her head, nearly black in the dim light thrown from the trunk lid.
I look around the parking area. We are alone, just a few feet from the Schuylkill River. Water laps the dock-the eternal meter of the city.
I take the money and put it into the fold of the newspaper. I toss the newspaper onto the girl in the trunk of the car, then slam the lid.
Poor Marion.
She really was pretty. She had about her a certain freckled charm that reminded me of Tuesday Weld in High Time.
Before we left the motel, I cleaned the room, tore up the room receipt, and flushed it down the toilet. There had been no mop, no bucket. When you shoot on a shoestring, you make do.
She stares up at me now, her eyes no longer blue. She may have been pretty, she may have been someone's idea of perfection, but for all she was, she was no Angel.
The house lights are down, the screen flickers to life. In the next few weeks the city of Philadelphia will hear a great deal about me. It will be said that I am a psychopath, a madman, an evil force from the soul of hell. As the bodies fall and the rivers run red, I will receive some horrendous reviews. Don't believe a word of it. I wouldn't hurt a fly.