The Oligarch’s Daughter

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Until that day, Grant had never killed anyone. He had thought about it before, of course, the way you imagine the worst thing you could do if you had to. You rehearse it in your dreams, in your unconscious. Inwardly, you debate.

How far would I go?

Grant’s girlfriend was helping him cook dinner, the night before it happened. She was Sarah Harrison. She taught first grade in the town’s elementary school and was sweet and gentle with a core of steel. He’d been attracted to her since the first time he met her, at the Starlite Diner five years ago. But there remained a distance between the two of them. Entirely his fault. He cared about her, but there was too much he couldn’t tell her about himself.

Sarah was making a salad while he kept watch on a chicken roasting in the oven. The kitchen of the old farmhouse was big and comfortable and cluttered — red-and-white linoleum floor, a tin-topped dining table, wood-paneled walls. He’d restored the house himself, mostly, doing the carpentry in his boat shop. The whole kitchen smelled of roasting garlic, an aroma Grant loved.

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