AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yes,” he tells me, a sad tinge to his voice. His eyes dart toward the kitchen. “My wife has been quite shaken up.”
“I can imagine.”
“Forgetful, too,” he says, almost embarrassed.
I watch the camera crew and the reporter as they countdown to go live. They ask questions about social media and copycat accounts and whether this Charlotte Jones is the same Charlotte Jones who has been rallying, asking for others to step up and take matters into their own hands.
She reminds me of a brunette version of Princess Diana sitting there opposite the hungry reporter. Charlotte has a pureness about her, a fair amount of charisma resides in those large doe eyes of hers. So demure, she is. Almost shy. Excellent at manipulation. Part victim, part instigator. But then, that’s what makes the story so compelling. Dark and untimely, a tragic fairytale. “No,” Charlotte says for the camera. “I would never.”
“What do you think about all of this? The latest developments? The instant fame?” the woman asks. “You must have heard about the fan clubs cropping up.”
“I try not to pay attention to any of it. To be honest, I’ve been very busy with my children. We’re all still a little in shock.”
The reporter’s voice lowers. “This must be a very difficult time for your family.”
“It has been—it is.”
“Do you have anything you want to say—to these men and women who are committing criminal acts—to those that are setting halfway houses on fire—that are kicking in doors of parolees?”
“Not really.”
You can see by the woman’s face this is not what she expected, and definitely not the answer she was hoping for. Ambiguity hardly makes good television. “Not really?”
“Well—,” Charlotte says. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth like it’s a maneuver she’s practiced. “It’s just that you have to be careful. I suppose that’s the most important thing to remember. When I hear these reports—it reminds me…you have to think like a criminal—and most people don’t.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Charlotte
It’s highly probable that this time tomorrow, I will be dead. That means, if I’m lucky, I have twenty-four hours left to accomplish an entire lifetime of work. This is why I’m camped out on Hayley’s floor watching her sleep, plotting my next move. Turns out, there’s a lot to think about when considering the end of your life. It’s like packing for a faraway vacation, just one you don’t return from.
I always knew this was in the realm of possibilities for me. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon. But then, no one does. Death usually sneaks up on you that way.
Within the past six years alone, the agency I work for has lost eight agents, five of them not to attrition. They were inside jobs. I know.
I handled three of them.
This gig is not a zero-sum game, nor is it a fair one. That’s not the way the world works, no matter what people want to believe.
This is the problem with society. If the average person knew that what are likely my very last hours walking the earth will be spent on scum like Geoffrey Dunsmore, instead of my family, they’d say I was the crazy one. It’s obviously no secret that most people are fucking idiots.
But still. I do not like to leave things unfinished. And, sure, I’ll admit it. It’s a little bit of a personal vendetta. If it had not been for Geoffrey Dunsmore bringing his prey onto my flight, I never would have been in that grocery store in the first place, and then none of this would have ever happened.
My life would not have unraveled. I would not have been exposed.
Even without extreme time constraints, when handling a job, there is a lot of room for error. It isn’t like you see in the movies. Sometimes you don’t get the kill. Not right off. Even if you have an entire lifetime, which after the latest series of events in my life, it is pretty clear I no longer have.
That’s what I’ve been thinking about for hours tonight as I moved back and forth between the girls’ rooms, st
aring at them as they sleep. I don’t like to think that this is the last time I’ll ever see them, but the reality of the situation—the nature of my work— has always meant that each trip very well could be.
I picture them as babies, the endless nights, almost like this one. I imagine them as toddlers, the days that once felt like they’d last forever, now long gone. And while I feel something akin to sadness, more than anything, I feel incredibly grateful that I’ve gotten this long.
I never wanted to be a mother. But then Sophie was born, and I was surprised to find that I didn’t hate it. It wasn’t instant. I never quite got the overwhelming feeling I’ve heard other mothers describe. I didn’t think that she was something I couldn’t live without. But the fierce protectiveness, the desire to see her excel in life, that was always there.
My phone vibrates next to me, a reminder that another video has cropped up. More girls being held against their will. More girls being traded and sold like animals. More girls being raped. More girls dying. Balancing my laptop on my knee, I power it on, lower the brightness, and slip my ear buds in.
The video begins with a shot of an empty bedroom. There’s a twin bed and a lounge chair, a dresser and matching nightstand. The comforter is pink, the pillowcase trimmed in lace. It is evident I am looking at a child’s bedroom. The camera moves shakily, panning outward, and then there is only darkness. When the image comes into focus again, it moves swiftly through a bush. A bedroom window appears. The camera pans backward and zooms out as a girl dressed in her underwear comes into view. She is naked from the waist up. A blue towel is wrapped around her head.
