She came to where he was sitting on the edge of the bed and she moved very close to him, with her knees touching his, and then she reached down seriously and solemnly, with a drunken dignity, and spread her hands on either side of his head like two open fans. She tilted his face up and then bent down and kissed him on the lips, with her own mouth open. He reached up behind her to cup her buttocks in his huge hands, thinking how much he wanted to love her, and thinking how his mother would of course object even though she was very beautiful. His mother would of course point out that she was a colored girl. He wondered when it had begun to matter just what the hell his mother thought about the girls he went out with, who the hell cared what his mother thought? And then he realized that he'd been caring what his mother thought for a long long time and that last night when he had finally said to hell with her, when he had finally let himself go with Molly, why that was the bad part, that was why he'd had to do it to her.
To kill her.
I killed her, he thought.
Amelia's mouth was covering him, her tongue was insistently probing, her lips were thick and soft and wet and he felt himself falling back onto the bed with her on top of him, and feeling the softness of her breasts against his chest, his heart beating wildly. He began trembling. She had taken off her bra in the bathroom, he realized she had taken off her bra. His hands moved swiftly up under her sweater and over her back. He rolled onto her suddenly, moaning, and kissed her breasts, the dark swollen nipples. "Oh, Roger," she was saying, "oh Roger, I love you, I love you."
He was lost in the aroma of her and in the warmth of her and in the dizzy insistence of her mouth, but at the same time he was thinking more clearly than he had since late last night when he had dropped the refrigerator in the river. He was thinking that he had to get her out of here because he was sure he would hurt her. He had hurt Molly without even having liked her at first, had hurt her only later when she somehow got him angry, but he felt a lusting rage now for this girl who was beautiful and "She is colored," his mother would say, "Why are you bringing home a little colored whore to me," he loved her lips and the way her hands she was dangerous if he did not get rid of her they would find out about Molly. If he hurt her, if she allowed him to love her, if she allowed him to enter her the dark pulsing interior of her in his hands now warm and moving against him the smooth dark smothering breasts if she allowed him to love her you're the man in the family now he would have to kill her there would be no other way he would have to kill her, they would find out about Molly, get away from me he thought.
He drew away from her sharply.
She stared up at him.
Her sweater was pulled up over her naked breasts, her skirt was high on her thighs. He crouched over her trembling with love for her. She reached for him tenderly. Her hand came up to him slowly and with infinite gentleness, touching him, assuring him "No!" he shouted.
"What?"
"Get- No," he said.
He moved off the bed. He turned his back to her.
"Go," he said. "Go home. Get out of here. Get out!"
"What?"
He was at the closet. He opened the door and took out her coat and brought it to the bed and put it down beside her without looking at her again, knowing she had still not pulled down the sweater, loving her and afraid he would hate her, please, please, go, please, not knowing whether he said the words aloud.
She got off the bed silently. She adjusted her sweater, and silently got into her coat. She picked up her bag from the dresser, went to the door, and unlocked it.
"I'll never as long as I live understand," she said and went out.
It was about seven o'clock when he went down for the truck and drove it over to the police station.
He parked just across the street, pulling up the hand brake and then cutting the ignition and glancing over to where the green globes were lighted now, the 87 showing on each of them, flanking the entrance doors.
He knew he was about to do the right thing.
It seemed very good to him that he had not harmed Amelia. That seemed like a very good sign. He didn't know why he hadn't done this right from the beginning, why he simply hadn't brought Molly here last night, right after he'd killed her, instead of putting her in the refrigerator and throwing her in the river where they'd never find her. He could have told it to someone right then and spared himself all the fear and Wouldn't they?
Find her?
He sat quite still behind the wheel of the truck with darkness covering the city and with the precinct globes feebly glowing across the street, throwing a pale-green stain on the snow banked along the precinct steps. There was the sound of shovels scraping the sidewalks, tire chains rattling on snow. His breath plumed into the cold cab interior, the windshield was getting frosted.
