The volume was set low, so I turned it up a few notches and sure enough, I could hear her sweet voice filtering through the speakers. It was the most beautiful sound. She really was an angel, I thought watching as her hips swayed to the rhythm and her smile was wide as could be.
A text popped through from Ace and I muted the camera, reading over his words.
It said:
Hey man, I wanted to give you a heads up. That pastor guy is awake. They're moving him out of the ICU and talking about releasing him within the next week. Maybe longer.
Fuck. That changed things. I had been hoping the guy would be destined for a grave and I wouldn't have to get my hands dirty.
There's more. The police have been looking into what landed him there, and they've realized Delilah is missing. I guess her friend at the library was worried when she didn't show up.
Shit, and more shit.
It seems their working theory is that Delilah was unhappy in her marriage and caused the chemical explosion in order to escape. They're treating her as the main suspect.
Well, this just went from bad to worse.
I wrote back a quick reply with anxiety curling around my chest.
Alright, man. Thank you for the heads up.
Mind reeling with this new information, I rubbed my temples as if that would somehow make everything better.
I'd thought for sure that if anyone noticed Delilah was missing, it would be to bring her back to John. I never thought they'd tried to pin all this on her. Fuck.
A message from Ace came back almost immediately reading:
Not a problem. I'll let you know if I find anything else out.
My eyes found Delilah on the screen, still shaking her ass and completely unaware of the mess I'd created for her. I wanted to save her from him, not have her take the fall for what I'd done.
When I first got out of prison, I swiftly took on a new identity, aware that if I used my real name that the people in Kingston who saw me as a threat could, and probably would, come for me. Ace helped me set up the whole thing. The guy was a genius with computers. Maybe that's what we needed to do now for Delilah, only would shebe okay with that? Taking on a whole new identity to leave this one behind?
I wasn't sure, but I felt like maybe it would be the answer she was looking for.
In the meantime, I needed to figure out how to get over my voice not working. And fast.
The thought of speaking rendered me panicked. It felt like every time I tried, my throat squeezed and felt like it was closing up on me. While I was capable of making some sounds it wasn't enough. I wasn't saying what I wanted to her. I hadn't been able to explain a goddamn thing. And now time was running out.
With John's recovery, I knew that I didn't want that fucker walking free to inflict any more harm on anyone else. Would Delilah feel the same?
If I could walk back in there and ask her right now and reveal my identity, how would she even react?
My fingers flexed and my leg twitched involuntarily. I had to make a decision, and soon. If they were looking for her then that changed my plans. Ultimately, when I played this out in my head, we took our revenge out on these fuckers together. Side by side. But if she chose not to join me, then she'd be at risk for them to come after her alone. And the thought soured my stomach. I hadn't been able to protect her before. And I'd vowed to never let any more harm come to her. So, if she chose to go it alone, that was her choice to make. Mine would be to follow her from a respectable distance, watching over her. And maybe that made me a fucking creep, but the world had shown me just how fucked up and unkind it could be. She deserved better than that.
We both did.
I typed another text to Ace asking if he would be able to forge a new identity for Delilah, just in case.
He wrote back:
Sure thing, dude. Send me over what you have, and I'll see what I can do.
In taking her from the house, I'd grabbed the shit off the coffee table, her unconscious body, and her purse that had been dropped bythe door. She kept little inside it. Some hand sanitizer, a few Band-Aids, a slim container with a few errant pills that looked like they were for headaches, and her wallet. Plucking out her driver's license, my thumb traced the sad, strained picture of her. It looked like all the life had been sucked out of her and she wasn't even present. Like a zombie.
When I was in prison, my face held the same dull, void expression. The same haunted look in my eyes that felt beaten down by the fucking world.
I sent over a scan of her license, front and back, and hoped he could work his magic one more time. Her life depended on it, because I'd be fucking damned if she was accused of attempted murder on my behalf.
