Dr. Thomas Sharlen:
"Me? Me of all the people it could have been, you ask. Don’t look so shocked. If you’ll but think one moment, it will all make sense. Who else cannot withstand the light of day or the sun’s cruel heat? Who else has a steady enough hand, a left hand, as you so expertly deduced? Who has the expertise to dissect the bodies so carefully, so meticulously and preserve them like they were only sleeping? And who would have the audacity to leave them on your stoop but a man not afraid of your power?
You see it makes sense that I am the perpetrator of these crimes, does it not?
Don’t reach for your gun; you’ll never make it in time. My knife will make quick work of her throat. Not quite the masterpiece I was hoping for my grand finale, but certainly a piece de résistance. She’s not you, of course, but as close as one can get without raising the dead…
Ahh, the look on your face tells me you already know… And yet the look on her countenance tells me she does not. Why keep the fair maiden in the dark. Shall we bring the family secret to the light then?
You say at one time you had a proper family: A father, a mother, some siblings perhaps, or maybe just one, a sister or a brother. Tragedy struck like it does in so many comedic tableaus, leaving just you and your mother and a sister, sold to a brothel for a crust of bread.
She gasps! Her eyes ask for your confirmation, but she needn’t search for something that can stare her straight in the face. Namely, your eyes, which are so like hers, it’s a wonder she didn’t notice before. And the freckles that dust her cheeks, that she tries in vain to cover with powders and paints. Do they not mirror yours almost exactly? And dare I mention the hollow look about the face and the lithe musician's fingers?
Is this man, this man that you claim to love so passionately, not your brother? Well? Answer me!"
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