wanted something very classy, very Vera Wangish. She’s always been my inspiration, although I’ll never be able to afford her. It’s a moot point now anyway, since Pembroke Correctional doesn’t allow prison weddings. Not that there’s a whole lot of opportunity to meet suitable men in here. (They keep the men and women segregated, although occasionally we manage to find ways of getting together. Hint: there’s way more than reading going on behind the bookshelves of the prison library.) Lots more about that if you agree to do the book.
Please, PLEASE, PLEASE consider my offer. I really think we’d make a great team. I promise to be very forthcoming and answer all your questions as honestly as I can. I won’t hold anything back. I’ll tell you all about my childhood, my parents, my brother and sister, my boyfriends, my sexual experiences. (Like you, I started very young. Unlike you, it wasn’t my choice.) In short, I’ll tell you every sordid detail, including facts never before made public about the unfortunate deaths of little Tammy Barnet and Noah and Sara Starkey.
I recognize that as the mother of two small children yourself, you are no doubt repulsed by the very idea of getting to know me better. You probably think you already know more about me than you ever wanted to know. Believe me when I tell you, you’re wrong.
So, take all the time you need to arrive at a decision. And rest assured that you are the only candidate I’m considering for the job. Naturally, I’m hoping to hear from you sooner rather than later. I fully understand that you’re a very busy woman, and that there are all sorts of demands on your time. You have a family to look after and a column to put out every week. But isn’t it true that every journalist dreams about writing a book?
You’re already well known in Palm Beach, but a story like mine could make you famous across the country. You deserve that, just as I deserve to have the true story of what really happened to those three sweet children made public. Naturally, I’m not expecting anything in the way of financial remuneration. Aside from the law that says criminals can’t profit from their misdeeds, money doesn’t concern me. Whatever you can negotiate with a publisher would be entirely yours to keep.
Mine is a story that needs to be told. I think you have the courage to tell it.
Anxiously waiting on your reply,
Jill Rohmer
P.S.: If you decide to accept my offer, or if you have any questions at all, please feel free to contact my lawyer, Alex Prescott. He has an office in Palm Beach Gardens, and I’ve already alerted him to the possibility you might call. Please do. I promise it will be worth your while.
Whatever you decide, I remain your steadfast fan.
Jill
“Holy shit,” Charley said, dropping the letter to her lap, watching her fingers tremble.
“Bad news?” Glen asked from behind his desk.
Charley noted the phone was no longer attached to his ear. “What?”
“You’re white as a ghost. Everything all right?”
“I’m not sure.”
Glen came around the front of his desk. “Anything I can help you with?”
Charley shook her head, her eyes returning to the letter in her hand. “You remember Jill Rohmer?” she heard herself ask. “She butchered three little kids a couple of years back. Every media outlet had a reporter covering her trial. I even wrote about her in my column.”
Glen’s eyes narrowed, furrowing his brow. “Right. I remember. She was the nanny or something. I remember my ex was freaking out about it.”
“You have kids?”
“A son, Eliot. He’ll be six on Saturday.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small photograph of a dark-haired boy with an infectious grin, showed it to Charley. “He lives with his mother and her new husband in North Carolina. I don’t get to see him very much.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Me, too. But they’re bringing him down for the weekend. We’re all taking him to Lion Country
Learning to Kill: Stories