Page 4 of Morally Grey

Ahead of me stands a small house. It’s just a little single-story number, with a shallow front porch and a serious weed problem. There aren’t any cars in the driveway, so maybe it’s safe if I have a look around. I’ve already committed murder. What’s another charge?

I ease the car to a stop near the garage. The massive door is closed, meaning the homeowners could definitely be inside, but this is a risk I’ll have to take. I haven’t eaten anything in days, and I can’t keep going like this.

This far out in the sticks, there’s every chance that whoever lives here hasn’t even heard about what I’ve done. I haven’t owned a cell phone in a while, but I remember social media. If murder isn’t the flavor of the week, my rebellious act might get buried beneath stories of plane crashes and missing pets. There’s always a chance.

And I’m going to take it.

I step out of the car and start toward the front door. A small statue stares up at me as I pass a narrow strip of overgrown earth that was clearly a garden at one point. It’s a concrete figure of a small girl holding a watering can, though one of her legs has gone the way of the dodo.

A large window looms above the greenery, and I peer inside. A woman with auburn hair lies on a faded blue couch in her living room. The television blares some morning news program, and I’m sick when my face flashes across the screen, followed by the tale of my misdeed. At least they don’t know my name yet. And that’s the big word, isn’t it? Yet.

I creep around the outside of the house, looking through the windows as I come across them, but she seems to be the only one at home. The single bedroom held no sign of masculinity, so I assume she lives alone.

Overpowering one woman isn’t so difficult, especially when I have a weapon. It’s a shitty thought to have, but there it is. I’ve thought it.

But maybe it doesn’t have to come to that. Sure, my story was all over the news this morning, but the woman is fast asleep. There’s no guarantee she learned about it yesterday. I’ll just give her a sob story and hope she buys it. If not, I have the gun.

Clearing my throat, I walk back to the front door and raise my fist to knock. I shuffle my weight between my feet as I wait, but I hear no noise on the other side of the door. After several silent moments, I hurry back to the window. She’s still fast asleep on the couch.

Back at the door, I knock a little harder this time. It’s too bad she doesn’t have a dog or a doorbell. Anything more effective than my fist against wood. But despite my frustration, I’m rewarded with the slide of a lock and an opening door seconds later.

The woman’s green eyes blink up at me as she tries to adjust to the land of the living. She’s quite pretty, in an unassuming sort of way. Very girl-next-door.

“My car...was giving me some trouble, and I think I’m lost anyway. Could I come in and use your phone? I don’t own one.” I offer her my most genuine and disarming smile and wait for recognition to dawn in her eyes.

She yawns and covers her mouth, then motions for me to come inside. “Yeah, come on in. Are you thirsty?”

As she walks a few feet into the house, she turns to see if I’m following. I’m not. Something doesn’t feel right about this. What single woman invites a strange man into her home?

“In or out, buddy? You’ll let in the bugs if you just stand there with the door open, and air conditioning isn’t exactly free.” She yawns again and swipes her hands over her eyes. “Coffee or tea?”

I clear my throat and step inside, closing the door behind me—after I remind myself that I have a gun. If she has anything planned, I’ll handle her.

“Neither,” I say. “I’m not really big on caffeine. I’ll just take some tap water, if it’s not too much trouble.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself, but if you’re worried about what caffeine will do to your body, I doubt you want what’s in tap water. Take a seat at the kitchen table.”

“I don’t really care about the caffeine, but I stopped drinking the stuff when my wife got pregnant. She said it wasn’t good for the baby, so I figured I could support her.” I sit down as instructed, not sure why I’m sharing such private information with the woman. I guess some subconscious part of myself wants to ensure I’m humanized in her eyes. Or maybe I just really miss my wife.

“You’re married?” she asks.

I nod. “My wife passed, but I’m still married.”

The woman freezes, then continues shuffling around in the kitchen. As she prepares the drinks, I look around at the odd decor. A ceramic rooster crows at me from the table’s center. On the counter, right beside the toaster, stands a large goose cookie jar. The finishing touch is a pig painting that details the different cuts of pork.

“Farmhouse chic?” I say as I study the odds and ends. “Way out in the woods like this, you could have the actual farm.”

She sits beside me at the table and slides the mug into my hands. Despite asking for water, I look down into a well of dark coffee. I haven’t had the stuff since before my wife’s death, so it feels wrong to drink it now, but the woman is staring. I raise the mug and take a sip.

“It’s decaf.” She plucks up her mug. “Sometimes I want a warm cup at night, but I don’t want to struggle sleeping.” She laughs and shakes her head. “I always have trouble sleeping anyway, so it doesn’t really help, but I tell myself it does.”

I chuckle to myself and take another pull from the warm mug.

“Is that why you did it?” she asks after a quiet moment. “Your wife, I mean. Was her death the catalyst for the murder?”

Lowering the mug, I clear my throat. “Excuse me?”

“That’s the question I’m dying to answer here. Why did you kill that bank CEO?”

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