He’d probably show up eventually. It was inevitable. With some of the killers I’d written about, it was an ego thing. Others, maybe it was a sense...of remorse or guilt. Who knows what would draw Alex Dixon back here. Couldn’t blame him if he didn’t come back, though. The local police and media had given him a really hard time. I wondered if his parents still lived in the two-storey brick house with the Victorian veranda at 220 Adair Street. I wondered if they still kept in touch with him. She also wore cowboy type boots, a micro-skirt that was too small for her and a jacket. Bangles up her arms, make-up splashed on with enthusiasm, Gill often stamped her feet and complained to anyone who would listen that her boss was fucking her. It was hilarious and I used to giggle at her stories. I just finished the evening shift and he dicked me again. Over the fucking table! Well it sounded funny and I thought it was great. Then later she started confiding in me that her Boss Jim was now. More

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