You aren't alone

I was sick as a dog. The thermometer said I had a fever of one hundred. I sat on my couch and slumped against a cushion. Earlier, I had attempted to make myself a cup of tea. I turned on the kettle and carefully poured a bit of milk into the bottom of the first mug I found. As I dropped in a tea bag, the kettle stopped working. I guessed that the water was hot enough. By that time, I was so ill I didn't care. I poured lukewarm water into the sugar jar, instead of my mug. Mortified, I was grateful no one was around to see.

I opened the refrigerator and spied the millionaire shortbread on the middle shelf. I had been saving it for a special occasion, but began shoving chunks of it into my mouth. It was utterly delicious, but I still felt sick. As I sat on the sofa, I flipped the TV on and found my local news station.

"And that's why this case is so interesting," I heard. I grabbed a blanket from under the coffee table and wrapped it tightly around myself. I was freezing.

"Nathan Alan Spaulding has been released on bail," the news anchor said. I noticed that the anchor's hair didn't move.

"I bet he goes through quite a lot of hair gel," I said out loud. The cat, Ralph, whom I had inherited from my grandmother, regarded me with disdain.

"Mr. Spaulding has been charged with multiple homicides, and is considered extremely dangerous. However, due to his late stage cancer, Mr. Spaulding is not expected to live out this month. He has been released to his home with ankle monitors, so that he cannot leave the premises."

"And now, it's time for the weather with Walter Johnson," said the anchor with the stiff hair.

"Hello everyone," said Walter. "There's a cold front moving in, so we can expect snow and ice tonight. Be sure to wear plenty of warm clothing if you go outdoors."

"Who doesn't know that?" I said.

Ralph meowed.

I curled into a ball on the sofa. "Exactly," I muttered. "Even you know that, and you eat your own vomit." Just then, I ran to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet.

There was a knock at the door. I wasn't sure I could move, but it might be my grandfather. He always worried about me because I lived alone.

"You are pretty and charming," he would say. Then, he would begin a well-meant lecture that always ended with me "settling down" with a "nice young man".

My retort would always begin with mentioning Ralph. "I'm not really alone," I would say.

"Ha!" my grandfather would say. "A cat takes care of its own needs, unless it requires food. You need someone besides myself to take care of you. I won't be around forever, you know."

"I know," I would say. Then I would roll my eyes.

"Manners cost nothing, Rose," he would inevitably say.

The knocking on the door continued. I wrapped myself more tightly in the blanket. "Alright, I'm coming," I said.

With all my strength, I turned the doorknob to the right.

"Come in," I said, expecting to see my grandfather. Instead, I saw a young man wearing a warm hat and gloves.

"Terribly sorry to bother you," said the man. "But could I use your phone?"

"Can you use my phone?" I repeated. "Don't you have a mobile phone?"

He held up a phone with a blank screen. "No power, I'm afraid."

I was still skeptical. "Why do you need to use a phone?"

The man sighed. "Well, I'm afraid my car slid off the road into a ditch."

I narrowed my eyes. "Why is your car in a ditch? You aren't drunk, are you?"

"Of course not!" said the man. His eyes were a deep brown. "I slid off the road because my car hit a patch of ice."

I glanced out the window and saw a car in a ditch.

"Okay," I said. "I will let you in on two conditions."

The man rubbed his face with his gloves. "It's freezing out here. Can't I just come in?"

I shook my head. "No. I don't trust strangers."

The man thrust his gloved hands into his pockets. "What are the conditions?

"Number one," I began, "you enter the house, make your call, and then leave. Condition two is that you tell me your name."

"Condition one seems bloody cruel," said the man.

"Do you want to use the phone or not?" I felt like I was burning up, and threw my blanket to the floor.

"Are you ill?" said the man. "I am a doctor, you know."

"I don't feel well," I whispered. "What's your name?"

"Arthur," said the man. "Arthur Kinsey. Out of curiosity, why do you want to know my name?"

I walked back to the sofa. "Statistically, women are less likely to be harmed by men who are criminals, if the man knows the woman's name. The name humanizes her."

At that moment, two things happened. Arthur entered the house, and I fainted.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying under a blanket on the sofa. Arthur was sitting in my grandfather's favorite leather arm chair, drinking a glass of what looked like whiskey.

"I hope you don't mind," he said. "The whiskey bottle had a thin layer of dust on it. Do you drink, or do you keep it around for someone?"

"That is none of your business," I said. "I feel better. Did you do something?"

"While you were out cold, I found some ice in the freezer and applied it to your forehead. Nothing complicated."

"Thank you," I muttered. "Now you can leave."

"Really?" said Arthur. "The tow truck is almost here, and I can keep taking care of you, if I stay inside. I don't know if you know this, but you are very ill."

"It's just the flu!" I yelled. "I want you to leave."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," said Arthur.

"Why not?" I said.

Arthur smiled and sipped his glass of whiskey. "Well, you see, I'm going to kill you."

"Why did you take care of me, if you're going to kill me?" I sat up.

Arthur leaned back in the chair. "I like my victims to be completely well before they disappear like a puff of smoke. I also enjoy the struggle. Most of my victims put up a fight before I take their lives. In other words, I need you relatively well before I begin the killing process.

My mouth went dry. "You're Nathan Alan Spaulding."

"In the flesh," he said, with a slight bow.

"How did you get free of the ankle monitors?" I said.

Nathan grinned and made a sawing motion. "Hacksaw. Oldest trick in the book."

"Well," I said, glancing out of the window, "if I'm going to die, can I have one last request?"

"I don't see why not," he said. "What is your last request?"

"A drink," I said.

He nodded and handed me the whisky.

I grabbed the bottle and broke it on the coffee table. Then, I plunged the jagged bottom half into his carotid artery. As he bled out in the chair, he managed to ask: "Are you a doctor?"

"Yes, I am," I said.

He smiled. "Doctors make the worst patients," he croaked before he died.