Page 158 of Pretty Broken Wings
“I can shoot you in the heart and leave you to bleed out, or you can write a suicide note, and I’ll let you go to sleep the easy way. Carbon monoxide.”
“What is going on?” A hint of anger creeps into Rich’s tone.
Anger. As if he’s the one who has the right to be angry. My own anger is hard to access. It’s like all that anger is finally channeled into calm action.
“How often did you touch him?” I ask.
“What?” I hear Rich shuffling back, probably to get his own gun. I swing my own to where I know the couch is and then pull the trigger. There’s an explosion of sound, and I point the gun right back at Rich. Gunshots aren’t unusual in this area, and a bullet hole in a soft surface isn’t easy to find. This is also a hunting cabin with guns everywhere.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The rasp is so much throatier now.
“I’m sure you don’t. Now choose.”
“Gage, whatever’s going on, I’m sure we can make it right.” His voice is high, like a child’s.
He’s a coward, but I didn’t expect anything less.
“A choice, or I’ll make it for you.” There’s a power that comes from finally doing something. I’m finally protecting my family, and it’s never felt more right.
I expect him to fight. To try to get a gun or throw something at me. Instead, all I hear is his fast panting for breath. I hear his mouth open and close a few times like he’s trying to say something but can’t.
“Go.” I step into him, pushing him backwards until we reach the garage. “Where are the keys?”
More gasping. He must be frozen.
I feel along the wall. We came up here a few times as kids, and sure enough, my gloves brush something, and keys jingle.
“Please,” Rich finally gasps. “I’ll leave.”
“That wasn’t an option. Get in the garage.”
Rich starts blubbering in full-blown panic, his adrenaline fully taking over. But still, he doesn’t fight me. Because he’sa coward and always has been. Only cowards do things to children.
I fire another round to get Rich to write the letter. This time, it’s into the ceiling, and it’s much louder in the garage. I have him turn the car on while he writes. I’m not convinced he’s able to write anything legibly. Whatever. I wasn’t going to give him the easy route anyway.
I planned for this. The easy route was Plan B. And then, if that doesn’t work, plan C, D, and E. I don’t care what goes down today. I’m taking back what he stole—safety.
Permanently.
For a moment, I stand there, listening to Rich blubber and the car run. Then, I lean into the car, putting my pistol up under his chin.
“Please,” he says, and all I can hear is Axel saying that. I hear it in his voice when we were kids and still trading gum for poems.
I pull in a breath, preparing my ears, and then pull the trigger. The force jerks my hand back.
There’s a boom, then nothing but ringing.
Warmth splatters down on my jacket and gloves with little plops despite my efforts to keep out of the spray.
For a second, I hear ringing, the car, and Rich’s clothes as he twitches against the seat. Then, he stops moving.
As he stops, all I can think is it’s too bad Axel isn’t here to hear him die. But if anyone goes down for this, I don’t want it to be him. I’m the detail-oriented one. I can make sure none of my DNA, and therefore his, gets on the scene. I know what to say and what not to say.
It’s my way to protect him, even though I couldn’t do it before.
Once the ringing slows down a bit, I wrap Rich’s finger in the trigger and lay his hand and the gun in his lap, like it fell there.
I’m wet.
