The 8th Confession (Women's Murder Club 8)

She had done no planning, had no finesse. She was just a borderline mentally challenged rage freak, but that was fine with Pet Girl because Bernie was her virtual slave.

Everyone was.

Norma Johnson wasn’t Pet Girl anymore.

She had no duties, no responsibilities, and every guard in the place, every trustee, had to take care of her. Her food was prepared. Her blue uniform was washed. Her sheets were folded. Her mail was delivered, and guess what? There was a lot of mail. From fans. From magazines. From Hollywood.

She was a celebrity now.

Everyone wanted to know her, to talk to her. They were both afraid of and in awe of her.

And she felt like the homecoming queen in this place. For the first time in her life, she thought she was where she belonged.

Norma lay on her pallet, looked up at the underside of the bunk above her, projected her whole life onto that blank screen. She turned over the many moments that had made her who she was, examined the greatest ones, and told her own story to herself.

She especially reviewed the one story she’d never told anyone: about the time her daddy had brought her to his house on Nob Hill when no one was there. He’d shown her the snakes he kept in his private room, shown her how he handled them, and told her how they could be used to kill.

She remembered how much she loved him then. How she worshipped him. But there was something else, too. The question. Why couldn’t he fully acknowledge her?

Her mom was usually right downstairs, running the vacuum in the living room. Why couldn’t Daddy kick out his wife? Why couldn’t he make Norma and her mom his real family, since he loved them both so much?

And then something happened.

His wife came in and saw Norma and her father together, and she’d gotten enraged.

“No, Chris. Not here. I told you. Never bring that girl into my house.”

And her daddy had said, “Yes, dear. Sorry, dear.”

And Norma had been holding the snake in her hand, its jaws held open at the hinge by her thumb and forefinger, just like Daddy had taught her.

But at that moment, there was panic in his face. He said, “I’ve got to get you out of here.” Like she was trash. Not flesh and blood. Not his daughter. Not the descendant of a senator’s daughter and the first citizen of California.

She’d ducked under his arm, run past “the witch” and down the hallway to the master-bedroom suite. And there, where they slept together, she’d slipped the krait under the covers of the bed where it was dark and snug, just what that snake would love. And she thought she was leaving the krait so that his wife would die — but she knew that her daddy slept in that bed, too.

He found her in the master bathroom. He banged on the door.

“Hurry up!” he’d shouted.

It was the last thing he’d said to her. She came out of the bathroom and ran out of the house and sat for hours on the curb.

She’d cried when he died.

And everything changed after that. But she wasn’t sorry. She’d stood up for herself, and now life was good again. All of her needs were being met. And she was the baddest, most important citizen in this place. She was respected here. She was respected.

“You okay in there, Norma?” the guard asked, coming to let Norma and Bernie out for their hour in the yard, keys clanging, making that comforting sound.

“I’m just fine,” said Norma Johnson, giving the guard a rare smile. “Never better.”