Murderabilia by Carl Vonderau


Murderabilia by Carl Vonderau
English | 2019 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 2.2 Mb

Murderabilia : When you’re the son of a serial killer, you can never escape your past.

William MacNary was eight years old when his father went to prison. Since then, he’s carefully built a life as a family man and a private banker for the wealthy. He tries to forget that his father dismembered and photographed thirteen women. And he tries to forget those exquisitely composed photos of severed hands, heads, and feet that launched the “murderabilia” art market.

William has not spoken to his father for thirty-one years. No one at his tony bank knows whose son he is. Not until his wife’s colleague is murdered and carved up in the same way his father would have done it.

All the evidence points to William. And only one person can understand the copycat killer—the monster William hasn’t seen since he was a child.

“It’s terrible,” I said.

Jill swept her eyes over Polly and me. She lifted some plates and noisily rinsed them in the sink. When she returned to the table, she said, “What’s going on with you two?”

Polly chose that moment to take a drag from her asthma inhaler. She fumbled with one of the diamond studs in her ear.

When you tell someone about a disaster, it doesn’t really matter where you start. As I talked, Jill’s frown slowly tightened. She and I had fastidiously kept Harvey Dean Kogan out of what our friends knew about us. We’d tell Garth and Frieda about the Preying Hands when they were teenagers, when they could separate themselves from the Preying Hands’ abominations. Jill didn’t worry about being outed as much as I did. She hadn’t lived through what a small town could do.

When I finished, my wife sighed and hooked blonde strands behind her ears. She said, “It’s not like we haven’t expected this.”

“But I don’t have a brother.”

Jill’s eyes widened. How could I be sure?

“No journalist has even hinted at it,” I said.

“Then who could this be?” When I raised my shoulders in a shrug, Jill slammed her hand on the table. “You must have some idea.”

I thought about the websites: The Art of the Preying Hands, A Walking Tour through the Preying Hands’ Photos, He Killed His Own Sister. My father had been fourteen when his sixteen-year-old sister, Magnolia, disappeared. “I won’t say I didn’t do it,” he said to the prison psychologists. An uncountable number of death hags, basement dwellers, and night crawlers idolized him for that. No one had ever found her body.”

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