Page 44 of The Last Trip

I hold the pillow over his face until he stops fighting. By the time he does, I’m sweaty and exhausted.

My heart pounds in my chest from the exertion as I carefully place the pillow back under his head and wipe the scissors off—clearing away my fingerprints—before laying the scissors in his opposite hand. His eyes are wide open, and I press them closed, stepping back. Blood still seeps from the deep wound on his wrist, down the bed, soaking into the mattress, and down onto the floor.

This man gave me my greatest blessing, and I will forever remember him as my greatest curse. These two things will remain true in my mind—agonizing and contradictory.

In the end, he left me with no choice.

He did this to himself. I repeat my story in my head.I came to see him, to show him his daughter, to try to forgive, and I found him like this.

Even if the officers don’t want to believe me, there will never be any proof. It will always be just my word against a dead guy’s, and if there’s one thing Cal taught me, it’s how to be a damn good liar. I’ve spent the last nine months practically receiving a masterclass in it.

Step One: Always have a plan.

When there’s enough blood spilled to have killed him. When there’s no doubt of what happened and how he did this to himself, clearly overcome with the guilt of what happened today, I open my mouth.

Then, with all of my strength—because Iamstrong—I begin to scream.

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