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Waiting around until the service is over, I tell myself that I’m lingering to be absolutely certain nothing is amiss. I’m not here forher. I wait until nearly every car was gone until the priest gets tired of standing around and walks away, until all that remains is Faith, her dead husband resting in his casket, and the gravediggers waiting to perform their job.
Dressed in a short black dress that flows around her knees in the light breeze, her face obscured by the fall of her flaxen hair, she holds a single yellow rose down at her side as, I imagine, she stares into the gaping hole beneath the casket, thinking of the good fortunes headed her way.
As she tosses that flower onto the casket’s lid then turns and walks away, I hope that she found the peace and freedom she was looking for. I don’t know her well, but I know enough to want the best for her. I want her to find the happiness that eluded her, all the good things Glenn had robbed her of for years. I want her to live in spite of her husband, and I hope the man is turning over in his grave because of it. I hope he’s looking up from whatever hell he’s in now and stewing over every good thing headed her way.
See you soon, buddy.
I have a good feeling as I crank the engine and coast away, traversing the winding, narrow paths paved through the cemetery. I’m getting a fresh start, just as Faith is. I’m going forward with a clean slate and rock-steady conscious. I’m...following the object of my obsession.
Jesus… What is wrong with me? I feel the tremor in my hands as they grip the steering wheel tighter, and I force myself to turn at the next intersection. I have no business following Faith anymore. The job is done. Over. It’s time for me to move on.
I curse myself repeatedly and force my mind onto other things as I jump onto the highway headed south, determined to put as much distance between her and me as possible.
I can’t be this stupid. I won’t allow it. The woman has no hold on me, never will. Just like everyone who’s ever entered my life, I’m cutting her off. Severing ties is the only way to ensure that I get what I want. And what I want is my own brand of freedom—from people, from expectations, from killing. From myself.
Yes, I know I’m my own worst enemy. I’ve known it all along. The rush of the kill is the flashing warning sign, telling me that my penchant for murder, the itch and drive to repeat the act, is the real problem. Even if I can get away with it all, find some secluded part of the world to hole up in and carve out a fresh new beginning, that desire will never go away.
The question is, will it pull me back in, or can I find the strength and fortitude to resist it? And then there is another problem to consider: it seems like there is always a reason for just one more…
I’ve only been driving for a few minutes when my phone makes its annoyingly chipper jingle signaling an incoming call. I growl in frustration, almost ignoring it, but something tells me I need to take this one.
Never one to go against instinct, I pry the phone from my back pants pocket and scowl at the unknown number.
Who the hell could be calling me that I don’t already know?
My thumb hovers over the green circle on the screen, while I debate what to do. Finally, I swipe my thumb across the green circle, accepting the call.
“Who is this?” I demand without preamble.
“Dec,” comes Tony’s familiar voice. “Sorry to bother you. I got one of the guys to pick up a burner in case you said no.”
My stomach flips in anticipation, even as my mind screams at me to hang up and keep driving. This is what I’d been afraid of. “Tony,” I warn.
“I have a friend who needs a favor. A special kind of favor. One only you can do. At least do it right,” he amends. “And I think it’s of personal interest. At least let me put it on the table before you close the door on it.”
I grit my teeth and then nod silently. It’s the “personal interest” part that got me. Tony takes my lack of verbal response as permission to proceed.
“She’s an older woman, single, has a close friend and family member who recently lost their life at someone else’s hands. We go way back. She knew my brother, rest his soul,” he prays. “She did our family a favor once, and in return, I promised her one. She’s calling it in.”
“And I should pay her the favor why? I told you I’m out.”
Tony chuckles. “Come on, Dec. We all know none of us ever get out. You might be a sole proprietor, but I’ve seen that look in your eye. You can’t walk away from this gig any more than any of us can. It’s in our blood.”
I want to argue, but there is nothing he can say that would ring remotely true. Tony is right. They are men who thirst for blood and violence. The only difference is that Tony did it for money and power, and I do it for justice.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
With a triumphant tone of voice, Tony adds, “Arrangements have already been made. Noon at that little Polish restaurant on Front and Main. You know the one?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
I hear the click of the line on the other end. Tony is a real bastard sometimes. Glancing at the clock, I see that I have only fifteen minutes to make it to the restaurant. I drive ten more headed south telling myself that I’m not going. I have total control over my life and my urges. I don’t need to take this case. I’m out.
I’m lying.
Shouting a few choice curses, I swing the SUV off the next exit ramp and punch the gas pedal to the floor, and not five minutes later, I’m pulling into the cramped parking lot and throwing the SUV into park.
