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ment. “No interview.” He cut the connection with the pushy reporter and walked to the window to peer through the shades. The street was empty and dark, the cars parked along the curb all those he recognized as belonging to neighbors. Good! More importantly, there were no news vans that he could see. Double good. Those vultures must’ve found some other piece of carrion to pick at.
His head throbbed and he picked up his drink, his third—or was it his fourth?—of the night, then tossed back the last three sleeping pills in the bottle.
Thankfully that old busybody Helen Davis who rented to him was gone for the next couple of days, visiting her grandkids or whatever. She’d told him exactly where she’d be going—maybe somewhere in Florida? Orlando? Tampa? Who knew and who the fuck cared? She’d asked him to check on her cat, but he’d barely been paying attention. He really couldn’t be bothered with the damned cat seeing as he was the primary suspect in the murder of his sisters.
God, what a mess.
Then again, his whole life was a waste.
The voices . . . they kept reminding him of what a loser he was. If they would just shut up, but oh, no. They only went quiet for a while after teasing him. Then they would suddenly start whispering again, always waiting for just the right moment to remind him of how he’d screwed up.
And they were coming back tonight. Starting to scatter around his brain, scraping and scratching, making him think he might be going out of his mind. He topped off his glass with whiskey, turned on the TV and turned off the lights. Then he sat down in his favorite chair and watched.
Of course the news was on.
This time the story was about the murder of Bruno Cravens.
“Jesus,” he whispered. He’d known Bronco. They’d run in different circles in high school and were in different classes, but they were acquaintances. He took another swallow and grabbed his remote to increase the volume.
Details were sketchy, but Bronco’s body had been found at his home, the victim of a homicide. Well, there was no surprise there. Bronco had been a two-bit criminal, had been in and out of the slammer, probably owed someone money for drugs or a gambling debt.
The news reporters were trying to link his murder with the discovery of the bodies of Holly and Poppy. At the thought of his sisters the old pain resurfaced, a heaviness that he felt in his heart. God, would it never end?
No. It will never cease. It will chase after you until your last dying breath. You know what you should do.
He ignored the voices. Knew they were evidence that he was crazy. He opened the drawer of the table next to his chair and retrieved his gun, a pistol he’d had for years, a pistol Harvey had given him when he was a teenager. God, that was a lifetime ago. For now he set it next to a box of tissues on the small side table and took another drink. Then he switched stations, found a talk show host whose jokes were as old as he was.
He glanced at the gun as he sipped. Picked it up. Felt its weight in his free hand.
Do it, the voices said, as they always did, just end it all. You don’t need this pain, this guilt. How many years are you going to put up with running and hiding and knowing that everyone you meet thinks you’re a murderer. Wasn’t it bad enough when they just thought you’d hidden the girls, done something horrible to them? Now they know about Holly. About Poppy.
Their faces came to him.
Innocent and bright, all big, toothy smiles, freckled noses and near-white curls. Holly had just become sarcastic, interested in boys and getting into trouble, starting to give Mom and Harvey fits. Owen had even caught her trying to sneak out a time or two. Poppy, still all legs and arms and coltish, her beauty just starting to peek through her gawky preadolescence. And Rose—little Rose, still a little imp. Too young to have gone to the movies with her older siblings and now . . . oh, Lord.
The world will be a better place without you. If you end it all, your secrets and Rose will be safe. Maybe. How will you ever know? You have no idea what became of her and probably never will. She might not be alive. You’ll never know and that understanding will eat you alive, is eating you alive.
“God help me.”
God. Jesus. All the Bible stories he’d heard and memorized as a child under his mother’s watchful eye.
How many pieces of silver did it take to betray Christ? Thirty? Does it matter?
A soft, pervasive voice came to him, the most seductive of the lot: End it all, Owen. End it now. Things will be better. For your mother. For everyone. You could find peace at last ...
His throat clogged. He would never be forgiven.
You won’t be anyway. It was true. The rest of his life would be filled with this torment.
Tell them. Leave a note. Let the truth out . . .
He couldn’t. He rotated the gun in his hand, put the barrel to his chin, finger on the trigger. As he’d done a thousand times before. Rehearsed.
Squeeeak.
The sound caught him off guard, caused his heart to stop for a second.
He turned down the volume and looked around but saw no one. The old house was just settling again. He’d heard that same squeak or one similar to it a million times when he was alone.
