And so are the Karens. 

She'd been collecting for years.  There was a small ceramic animal on her shelf that corresponded with each good deed she'd done.  A kitten for the baby she'd saved from choking, a lion for the time she'd donated to a soldiers home.  She smiled bitterly and wondered if she'd really, truly met her goal, and if it was really going to be worth the time she'd spent giving so selflessly. 

That's what philanthropy was wasn't it? Selflessness?  A pure expression of human kindness. A gesture to others that expressed the need for common courtesy, decency and above all, love.  If you didn't do things like risking your own life, or giving away your fortune for love, why on earth did you do it?  She didn't want to answer that question. 

With a dramatic sweep she dropped the figurines into her purse, listening to the tinkle as their fragile ceramic bodies tumbled one over the other, settling at the bottom of the silk lined handbag.  These tiny little creatures were her good luck charm, her reason for living, her get out of jail free card.  She was ready. 

The drive out into the country was a chance to change her mind, each mile droning on, leading her to doubt her plan.  As the weariness of the road wore on, her mind reached for stimulus, fixating on the reason she was going the one place she swore she'd never return.  A sign appeared over the crest of a hill and she pressed her painted lips together in a thin line. 

"Addison's Home for Lost Girls" 

She pressed the accelerator. 

It wasn't hard to get seen.  She explained she was looking after a wayward niece who had been a handful since infancy.  The intake nurse nodded sagely, it was a story she'd heard again and again.  Most of the girls at Addison's were orphans, but there was more than a handful that had been surrendered by exasperated parents.  Addison's even took in girls who had fallen pregnant, helping their babies find homes with rich couples who couldn't have their own children.  After the initial interview she finally asked if she could see Addison himself.  The nurse hesitated but made a brief phone call.  

"Professor Addison said he'd be glad to meet with you Miss Burke."  

On the short walk down the carpeted hall she attempted to calm herself.  This could be the day.  She took a deep breath and smiled at the nurse, then stepped into the lavishly decorated office.  Compared to the rest of the house and its spartan furnishings,  the office almost looked like a Turkish bathhouse.  Rich Oriental rugs laid on the parquet wood floor, there was a settee to the side, upholstered in velvet. And silk cushions lay scattered artistically around the other furnishings.  Finally, lavish floor to ceiling curtains were held open with thick golden ropes, indirect sunlight brightening the otherwise dark office.  A deep red leather chair sat facing the window behind a mahogany desk. 

"Please do sit down." The voice was so familiar she felt like she'd been punched in the gut.  "I will be right with you."  

She perched on the brocade chair that faced the desk and willed her heart to slow it's frenetic beating.  He sounded the same.  She smiled. Forcing her lips to curl upwards.  

"Take your time." 

The few minutes she had to wait allowed unwanted thoughts to fill her head.  The sound of a wooden door scraping against the bare floor.  The unwanted caress. Secret whispers in the dark.  She shuddered, then immediately shook herself free.  Those thoughts were important, but not convenient.  By the time the chair came around and she came face to face with her father she had smoothed the unwanted memories back down into nothingness and had twisted her face into one of a friendly sycophant.  

"How can I help you miss? Uh, forgive me, the nurse forgot to introduce you." 

"Burke" she said with a smile. 

"Miss Burke then.  Most guardians aren't that keen on meeting me."  He adjusted his glasses and she saw his eyes flash silver with cataracts.  Although she had dyed her hair and done her best to disguise herself, she was unnerved by his apparent lack of recognition.  She decided to press forward. 

"Neither am I."  She said.  "But I needed to see you."  Professor Addison adjusted himself in his chair and looked perplexed.  

"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand-" but he trailed off.  She had gotten up and come around the other side of his desk.  

"You don't deserve to understand." she said as she pressed an ether soaked handkerchief to his nose.  With minimal struggle she held him until he went limp, then set to work using the glimmering golden ropes from the curtains to tie him up.  She stuffed his mouth with his own silk tie and then waved smelling salts below his nose. 

"Wake up old man."  His silver blue eyes fluttered open in confusion, then filled with fear.  He struggled to move, finally giving up in exhaustion.  "It's me, Sunny.  I told you I'd never come home, but after I saw you'd opened a 'girl's home' I had to.  I can't let you get away with doing what you did to me.  I can't let you do it to anyone else."  Her cheeks were flushed red and a cold sweat dotted her brow.  She had tried to prepare herself for this, but it was hard not feeling intimidated by what she had planned.  She finally stood up and kicked her father in the ribs.  "This is the only way I can come clean." 

The first couple of matches barely scorched what she held them to, so finally she lit an old oil lamp and dashed it against the curtains.  Hungry flames leapt to the ceiling and anything the oil had splashed onto.  Her father's hair fluttered slightly as it burnt.  His agonized screams muffled by the tie.  She quickly left the office, and crept into the dark hall. The time she had spent preparing her revenge had seen supper pass and the sun set and now the nurses and girls were all tucked into bed.  Sunny hastened out the door and got into her car.  The fire spread faster than she had even imagined and she could make out faint screams.  Eventually she put her car into drive and sped into the night. 

The next day, as the headline "Girls home burns to the ground. No survivors." hit the newspapers, she hit the police station and turned herself in.  Her trial was brief and she was found guilty on all charges, however, due to her massive collection of good deeds, she was only given six months in a local prison.  Allowed to take a few of her own things with her, she marked off each day with a little ceramic animal which she abandoned the day she got out.  

The sensation of someone sat on the edge of your bed. The slight tug on the sheets, the depression that causes a shift in your posture. The slight warming of their body against your own. Here, it usually meant you were in the presence of someone comforting. Either being visited by a loved one, or a care giver was present to nurse you back to health. But not this time. The deceptive sensation rose up, and he opened his eyes. Over the intrusive respirator, he could see the man looking back down on him did not provide that comforting feeling. He did have a familiar face, famous even, but it was not warm nor welcoming. In the otherwise empty room, only the lonely heart monitor's soft chirp broke the quiet as the man on the bed grinned with menace at his victim.

What came next was a gentle pressure, initially soft and cool. Soon it was hot, and tight. Breathlessness followed and the man sat on the edge of the bed groaned in ecstasy. The heart monitor sung a low, melancholy song.

***

I saw that face in the paper the next week. Sergio Ross. His grin, harrowing and false. He had made yet another donation to a children's trust, rebuilt a girls home that had burnt to the ground and opened two new hospitals. To the adoring public, his grin spoke of his endless philanthropy, and unbound generosity and utter devotion to the betterment of the human race, all funded by immense, inherited, wealth. To me, it was the grin I saw smeared across his face when he murdered my father. 

Some basic investigative work produced the results I had suspected. A slightly higher than normal death rate across all hospitals funded by him. Unexplained deaths of otherwise non-critical care patients. Sergio was abusing the system. He was abusing it for the sick gratification he got when he took a life.

I had no idea how far this went. Who knew? Who was covering it up? Who was allowing his to get away with it?

I had to take matters into my own hands. At his next public appearance, I was there. Revolver in hand. I approached him with a notepad and before the bodyguards could pick me out of the line of journalists, I had the snub nose against his contorted, groveling, devilish features and pulled the trigger. Skull fragments rained down over the gathered crowd. Gore clung to surfaces and garments. I was tackled and taken away.

The consequences were known to me well in advance of pulling that trigger. Murdering in plain sight the most beloved and recognized figure on the continent? The chair, no exceptions. After a brief trial I was strapped into the solid, splintered frame, worn leather tightened around my wrists. Droplets sank down my neck and into my collar from the sponge on my head. Darkness. Then, light.

I was ushered away, back to my cell. Officers came and went. Reporters clamored outside the walls of the prison. Within the week I was released, stood blinking in the sunlight I had bid farewell. Sergio's crimes had been discovered. The greatest, most prolific mass murder on the planet, most likely. He preyed on the institutions he funded, he bled, smothered and choked the humans that provided him the release he craved. And I was free. No, I was in credit.

As the reporters descended on the entrance to the prison, all I could think about was...what else could I get away with?