Chapter 10From Joe MacAree’s journal, February 26, 1991:
This is how I picture fat Phyllis: She is lying in the middle of her designer living room in Lake Forest, her rolls of naked fat covering the parquet floor. There are several open wounds on her, inflicted with a butcher knife. The blood pumps out of her. She is gasping, trying to reach out for the little pince-nez glasses on the floor beside her.
A dark heel enters the frame and stomps down on the glasses. There is the sound of glass crunching. The wooden floor is scarred and Phyllis’s eyes widen in terror as she looks up at the face above her.
All we can see are the dark, black boots of the stranger. One of the feet lifts and comes down on her fingers, the heel connecting with the flesh that connects them to the hand.
Her knuckl
