Page 3 of Morally Grey

In the eyes of the law, however, he was no hero. He was just a thief.

That brings me back around to the question ofwhy. My father’s motive was clear enough. He stole money to help his family. But why did this vigilante need to steal a life? It wasn’t for financial gain, since he didn’t take the woman’s purse, so what did he get out of it?

Without realizing it, I’ve taken a seat in front of my computer and pulled up the articles about him. Each one says the same thing, that they don’t know who he is or why he’s committed the crime. They’re written with the same verbiage, as if they were all typed by the same hand and gifted to the national news agencies.

Yet I read each one. I study the same pictures.

Like a gluttonous woman, I sit at my desk and feast on the same sustenance, over and over, and still I’m not satisfied. I print out the pictures and paste them to a bit of purple cardstock. There are only three images for now. The one where he wears the balaclava, another where he’s at the gas station, and a third from just after the crime that shows him slipping into a back alley.

My hands move on autopilot as I reach for my sketchbook and my trusty HB pencil. Studying his features, I begin mapping his face on the paper. I start with the shape of his head, focusing on the sharp cut of his jaw. The pencil scrapes along the page, forming his lips, his blue eyes, his straight smile.

A perfect killer.

With the sketch in place, I start a pot of coffee. I should be asleep right now, prepping for another long shift at the hospital, but I’ve found a muse. The urge to draw him and capture his details on paper overwhelms me.

After plopping a heaping dose of vanilla cream and sugar into the mug, I settle at my desk again and pull out my detail pencils, a kneaded eraser, and some charcoal. For hours on end, I smudge and shape and erase until his face practically pops off the page.

I glance at the clock. It’s nearly three in the morning, and my shift starts in two hours. The thought of returning to the hospital and missing news updates on the murderer makes my skin crawl, so I do what any sensible woman would do. I call in and say that I’m sick. I have some time off saved up, so it won’t hurt my bottom line. Though I do feel a little guilty for the others who will have to pick up the slack I leave behind.

But only a little.

With that settled, I place my drawing beside the photos. It’s beginning to look like a proper shrine, which is a bit creepy, but it’s not like anyone will see it. I don’t exactly entertain visitors on a regular basis. The girls and guys at work like me well enough, but I’m in exactly zero inner circles.

I shuffle to the couch and lie down, in direct view of my new shrine. And as I look at his pictures, I fall asleep.

Chapter Three

Grey

The murder weapon burns my skin despite the barrel’s cool temperature. I need to get rid of it, I know that, but every time I try to let it go, it feels...wrong. Each time I find a new spot, I fear it’s too obvious, too close to a camera or something. The cops already tagged my full face in a gas station video, and I can’t risk another fuckup.

A cop is heading my way, so I turn my face to avoid him seeing me. No one notices anyone in the city. Even when looking for a murderer, it seems. I raise my hood and walk the last block to my car.

I parked a mile away from the scene because I couldn’t risk the added cameras. I knew this area didn’t have any. After spending the night in a filthy alley, I’m ready to get back to safety, and my car is the best I have. As the morning sun bursts between the buildings, I slide behind the steering wheel, and the endorphins in my brain die when the gravity of what I’ve done pushes me into the seat.

I killed a person.

I fucking killed her.

But my guilt takes a back seat as a cop car flashes its lights behind me in the parking lot. I peer into the rearview mirror and curl my fingers around the gun. Shooting a cop wasn’t on my bingo card, though, so I release my hold on the weapon. No one else needs to die.

Then the car swerves around me, and the siren kicks on as he peels out of the parking lot. I live to see another day.

Not that it matters. Now that I’ve killed the greedy bitch, what purpose does my life have? I live in my fucking car. The life I built, the life I wasbuilding, went into the ground with my wife and child. I have nothing to lose because I have nothing.

I start the car and pull onto the main road. I need to get out of the heart of the city. The outskirts will be safer. Maybe I can find an abandoned house to sleep in. If I’m discovered, it could bring more heat my way, but I’m already in the fire. I jumped from the frying pan the moment I pulled the trigger and killed the greedy bitch.

The buildings eventually break apart, stretching out until there’s space for trees and grass between them instead of concrete and brick. Because the road is so empty out here, I notice when a car approaches behind me. It’s a dark SUV, and I’m pretty sure it’s an unmarked car.

A side street appears to my right, and I take it. If the SUV makes the turn, I’ll know. And sure enough, seconds later, the black behemoth makes the same right. I’m being followed.

Call it paranoia if you must. Actually, that’s probably exactly what it is, but why is that a bad thing? Paranoia is just a natural stress response, and I’m fucking stressed. I take the next left and hold my breath.

The SUV takes the same turn.

I’m a rat in a maze, and I’ve run myself into a dead end. The road leads to a driveway that winds into the woods. If I try toturn around now, my tail will have me cornered. The only thing to do is keep driving.

So I do. As if I belong here, I pull down the driveway and watch my rearview mirror. The black SUV shrinks as it turns around and disappears, but I keep driving until the driveway ends.

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