Eight years ago, my entire family was dismembered and murdered. I was the only survivor. Eight years later, my crime novel, written from the killer's first-person perspective, became a national bestseller. At a book signing, a talk show host, known for his probing questions, cornered me. "Mr. Vance," he began, "this novel, written with such chilling intimacy from the perspective of a killer... would you say it's a form of revenge against the person who murdered your family?" My fans, fearing the question would upset me, started booing, yelling at the host for being so insensitive. But I just held up a hand to quiet them. My eyes held a strange mix of relief and anticipation. "Of course not," I said with a calm smile. "This isn't revenge. It's an autobiography, documenting my own crimes from eight years ago." "After all," I added, my voice dropping just enough for the microphone to pick it up, "I was the one who killed them. How could I take revenge on myself?" 1. A stunned silence fell over the room. Then, chaos. "Did I hear him right? What did Asher Vance just say?" "Hahaha, what a jokester. Of course a great writer would have a great sense of humor..." "But look at his face. He's dead serious." The crowd was a sea of confusion. I tossed my pen on the table, leaned back in my chair, and crossed my arms, my voice lazy. "There's nothing to joke about. I'd been wanting to kill them for a long time. The cops, though... they're pretty useless, aren't they? Letting me walk free for eight years. If I hadn't said something myself today, they'd still be scratching their heads over that cold case in another eight years." Reporters in the audience gasped, a collective intake of breath. They smelled a career-making story. Cameras and microphones surged forward. "Mr. Vance, are you serious? You really murdered your family?!" "Why did you do it? And why confess now?" "Aren't you afraid of the legal consequences..." My agent, Mark, a burly, perpetually stressed man, threw himself in front of me, trying to hold back the press. "Of course it's not true!" he yelled. "Asher would never do something like that!" He shot me a look of pure terror, as if he were seeing a madman. "Asher, what the hell are you talking about?" I ignored Mark's panic, my gaze sweeping over the shocked faces in the crowd. My voice was as calm as if I were describing the plot of my book. "Eight years ago, in our family home, I murdered my parents and my younger sister. Then, piece by piece, I took them apart." A flicker of something dark and pleasurable crossed my face. I was remembering something I was proud of. "My technique was quite good, I have to say. It took the medical examiner three full days just to reassemble the bodies." The audience, a mix of fans and reporters, stared in horrified silence. Then, the anger erupted. "Is he a monster?" "He's proud of killing his own family!" "My uncle was a detective on that case eight years ago! He said the scene was a slaughterhouse! Blood everywhere, body parts scattered all over the house!" "So that's why Asher, who was away at college, was the only survivor! He was the killer all along!" I tapped the cover of my new book, The Fog. It was a novella I'd spent three years crafting. "So," I said, a small smile playing on my lips. "I'm sure my fans can now appreciate the stunning authenticity of my work. It's a shame, really. If I wasn't worried about the police catching on, I could have made the methods and motives even more true to life." The crowd went wild. "You're a monster, Vance! And I used to admire you!" "I own every one of your books! I can't believe I was a fan of a murderer!" "Your most successful book is a how-to guide for murdering your family? You're not even human!" If it weren't for the security guards, they would have stormed the stage and dismembered me right then and there. Mark was sweating profusely, his voice hoarse. "Everyone, please, stay calm! The police will get to the bottom of this!" I saw them blocking the exits. I wasn't going anywhere. Someone had already called 911. My atonement was about to begin. 2. The police were fast. The Vance family massacre was one of the state's most infamous unsolved crimes. They had chased their tails for years on that one. In the interrogation room, an older detective hurried in. "Captain Miller, you're here." Miller. I looked up at the square-jawed, kind-faced detective. He was the lead investigator on my family's case all those years ago. The pressure to solve it had been immense, and his failure to do so had stalled his career. "Asher. It's been a while," he said, sitting across from me. I gave a weak smile. "It has. Your department's incompetence is truly remarkable." Back then, he had been the one to guide me through the initial shock and grief, a steady presence in the chaos. Eight years had not been kind to him. "Asher, why did you kill your family? And why confess now, after all this time?" I adopted a careless, flippant tone. "What's to understand? We were dirt poor, but they still wanted to blow a fortune sending my sister, Chloe, to art school in New York. The money in that house was for my education. Why should she get to live her dream while I was scraping by on student loans and financial aid?" My voice rose, the calm, collected author disappearing, replaced by a raw, resentful young man. The junior detective taking notes couldn't help but interject. "But they were your family! Our investigation at the time showed you were all very close!" "Close?" I sneered. "When it comes to your own future, what does 'close' even mean? Let's say you and I were close. If I asked you to give me your pension right now, would you do it?" The young detective's face turned red. He was speechless. Captain Miller just watched me, his gaze steady. "I reviewed the old case file. The estimated time of death for your family doesn't line up with the time you were confirmed to be at home." I gave him a mysterious smile. "Well, you're the detective. I'm sure you can figure it out. I have my ways of creating an alibi." 3. Miller left, replaced by another officer who asked for a formal statement. I closed my eyes, letting the memories wash over me. "July 3rd, 2015. I was home from college for the summer. My parents told me their plan to send Chloe to Parsons. I told them no way. I worked my ass off to get into a top university, to win scholarships and grants. Why should she get to piss away our money on an art degree?" "So you argued?" the officer prompted. "Yes. I smashed a glass on my father's head." I pictured the wound, the way the blood matted his hair. "I took him down first. My mother and sister were screaming. I went to the kitchen, got a knife, and killed them both." The officer frowned at my detached tone. "And why did you dismember them?" A slow smile spread across my face. "Misdirection, of course. Everyone knew what a good, loving family we were. What kind of a dutiful son would do something so monstrous to the people he loved?" "You animal," the officer muttered under his breath. When they left me alone, I just sat there, replaying the plot of The Fog in my head. Before its release, I was a moderately successful writer. The Fog made me a star. And as its fame grew, so did the public's fascination with the unsolved crime that inspired it. This book signing... it was all part of my plan. Soon, Miller returned. He was sweating, like he'd been running. 4. "You're lying." I looked up at him, a half-smile on my face. "What did you find?" "We contacted your old professors. Their stories haven't changed. On the day of the murders, you were on campus, working on your thesis. We pulled the security footage from that day. You were in the library, the cafeteria, and your dorm. You never left campus. Your university is a thousand miles from your hometown. Without a flight or a train, you couldn't have made it back in time." He leaned forward. "So, you weren't there. You're lying." "Is that all you have?" I asked. Miller's frustration was palpable. "Asher, what are you doing? You've incited a public panic, you're on the verge of destroying your life. All our evidence confirms you weren't there. You didn't kill them." He paused. "Unless you had an accomplice." I just looked at him, not confirming, not denying. My 24 hours were up. They had nothing. Reluctantly, they had to let me go. As I walked out of the station, I saw a familiar face waiting for me. My uncle. Miller explained, "He's been here for hours." My uncle was well-dressed, his hair graying at the temples, a successful businessman. "Asher, what's gotten into you? Why would you say those things?" He turned to the police. "Officers, please, you have to clear my nephew's name!" He looked distraught, but his eyes were cold. I turned to Miller with a wry smile. "You want to know who the killer is?" He looked at me, confused. My gaze drifted past him and settled on my uncle. "You don't have to look far." 5. The moment I got home, my agent, Mark, was on the phone. "Asher! Do you know what you've done? Your book sales have plummeted! Online retailers and bookstores are getting mass returns! The publisher has pulled the book!" He looked like he hadn't slept in days. "I'm sitting on my sofa, watching my name being dragged through the mud on every news channel." [Why did they let him go? Don't they have any evidence?] [The book is practically a confession! Who else could it be?] [Don't let this killer walk free!] [The Author's Guild needs to blacklist Asher Vance! We can't have his sick fantasies on the market!] [CancelAsherVance] Mark was shaking me by the shoulders. "It's the end of the world and you're just sitting there! Why couldn't you just keep your mouth shut and make your money?" I pushed him away gently. "Mark, I wasn't crazy. I really did kill them." Mark just scoffed. "And I'm the King of England. I'd believe that before I'd believe you're a killer." After he left, he called back. "Asher, prepare yourself. This is a huge scandal. The publisher's worried about their reputation. They might drop you." I just nodded. The hunger for fame and success that had driven me in my twenties had faded. All I cared about now was the truth. As expected, I got another call from the police. "Mr. Vance, we need you to come back to the station." When I got there, my uncle was already there, his face livid. "Asher, I don't know what lies you've been telling these officers, but I would never, ever harm my own brother's family!" Miller looked at me. "Asher, are you accusing your uncle, Robert Vance, of the murders?" "Officers, don't listen to him!" Robert shouted. I ignored him and spoke to Miller. "A month before the murders, I heard him arguing with my father."
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