I turn back to look at him. “You wouldn’t—”
“I don’t want to.” His hand again pats the empty space on the table where mine used to be. “But I can’t let you jeopardize my hearing.”
“I already said I’m arguing against the death penalty—”
“But why should I take that chance? Especially when there’s one body the police still haven’t found.”
“It won’t make a difference,” I say, unsure whether I’m trying to convince him or myself. “They’ll assume you killed him since, you know, you’re a serial killer.”
“Except for one small problem.” He smiles, but the smile has changed. All the warmth has drained out of it, and those hook teeth look like they belong in the foamy jaws of the pit bull that lived down the street. “He might look harmless,” my mother had said about that dog. “But you won’t know for sure until it’s too late.”
“The rock. I kept it.”
I keep falling. “You kept it.”
He nods. “Somewhere safe. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry. That rock is soaked in my father’s blood, and it has my fingerprints all over it. I’d been so traumatized after bashing his head in, I hadn’t stopped to consider what happened to the murder weapon. Of course Tom picked it up and stashed it somewhere to be used against me at a later date.
“Why wait until now?” I ask. “Why didn’t you use it earlier—during the trial?”
Tom looks genuinely confused. “Why would I have used it during the trial? I don’t want you to get in trouble. Greer, there’s no one in the world who matters more to me than you. There’s no one I love more.”
The temptation has never been greater. Not just to sit back down, but to curl up against him, the way I did before he was arrested. I’dpress my cheek against his chest, measure out the rises and falls, attempt to portion my breath the same way. Inhale for four, exhale for four. I always expected that if we sat like that often enough, eventually, our breaths would align—a sign that we belonged together. But no matter how many years passed, his inhales were always a little longer than mine, his exhales a little shorter. It was never a problem, though. I simply tailored mine to fit.
“There’s no need for us to fight.” Tom motions to the seat opposite him. “Why don’t you sit down, and we can talk about what’s really bothering you?”
It’s so clear, then, what I need to do. I turn around and once again raise my hand to knock on the door.
“If you walk out of here,” he says, his words rushing into one another, “you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering when the police will show up on your doorstep, when you’ll be dragged away in handcuffs. And you will never,never, know when it’s coming.”
I don’t turn back to him—merely look over my shoulder when I say, “I’ll live with not knowing.”
Then I knock on the door, and the guard pulls it open. As I’m escorted down the hall, Tom’s shouts echo around me. “Greer! Greer, come back! You can’t leave me here! Please, I’ll do anything!” I wish I could say it feels good, triumphant even, but it doesn’t.
It just feels empty.
I PULL OFF THE HIGHWAYsomewhere in Idaho—at a gas station that’s long since fallen into disrepair, its windows boarded up with plywood, the numbers announcing how much unleaded costs stripped away. Grass, yellowed and brittle, sprouts up around the pumps. I get out of the Challenger, which, apart from a large dent in its trunk, emerged from the accident unscathed.
An approaching eighteen-wheeler slows, and the man in the front seat, a trucker with a beard like a Brillo pad, rolls down his window to ask if I need help. I give him a thumbs-up, which he cheerfully returns before speeding back up.
In the trunk are three red plastic gas cans. One at a time, I take them out, unscrew the caps, and douse gasoline all over the car. The windows are rolled down, making it easy to drench the seats. I toss all three cans by the empty pumps and take a matchbook out of my pocket.
It looks like Tom’s car. That was the first thing I thought when I saw the Challenger online. A few quick clicks, and it belonged to me: black, sleek, a dead ringer for the car that had ended so many lives with a press of the gas pedal. A car that looked like Tom’s car, a lodge that looked like Tom’s cabin. After his arrest, I tried so hard to rebuild the life we’d shared together, brick by painstaking brick, without ever asking myself if that was what I really needed. If maybe it wouldn’t be better to raze it all to the ground and start anew.
Fuck it.
I pull the match across the striker, and the tip bursts into flame.
Then I toss it through the window.
The flames spread quicker than I thought they would. They race across the leather seats before moving on to the dashboard. Heat sweats off the aluminum frame.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the folded postcard. The photograph of Red River Bridge has a white crease running through its center. The edges are crumpled, but it still looks just as epic as the first time my mom showed it to me. I wish I could tell her I got there in the end. I wish I could tell her I jumped off the edge; she’d be furious with me. But I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that I’ll never see her again.
I fold the postcard—first into halves, then quarters—and just likewe all did on the first day of the retreat, I toss it into the bonfire. I’m expecting a bright flash of light, something to mark the significance of the moment, but there’s nothing.
Tires crunch their way up the road. It’s the same eighteen-wheeler from before. The man rests his forearm against the window’s ledge.
