Page 201 of Murder

December 27, 2015

I strap the brace on my left hand and look down at my fingers. The three that don’t move on their own are tightly curled against my palm: just tight enough so they can wrap snugly around the grip panel of my .22.

Christmas from Gwenna. So goddamned thoughtful.

I unload a few shots into the bull’s eye out in front of me, then use the lever on the fence to move the target back another thirty yards.

A cold breeze smacks it from the side, causing the bull’s eye paper to flutter. All the better. I set my sights on the small, red dot and pull the trigger with my right index finger.

When the bullet slices cleanly through the middle, I grin and blow on my fingers.

Not bad for a leftie.

I spend another half an hour at the range. It’s just three miles from our houses, but I still wouldn’t be here were it not for my secret Christmas present to myself. I feel fucking bad about it if I think about it too long, so I try not to. I just watch her on my phone and see her singing in her car and get a deep, relieved breath.

She’s leaving Home Depot with some bungee cords for the trip. We’re leaving tomorrow. I follow along with her as she heads toward her hair place. Fuck, her voice is gorgeous. She’s singing some old-school country music. Reba, I believe. Dove went through a country phase in Myanmar one time, so I know the classics.

When she exits the Mini Cooper, I’ll track her phone. Be sure she gets into the hair place. If she loses the phone, it doesn’t matter. All her shoe soles have been punctured, and the right shoe of every pair harbors a tiny GPS tracker.

I turn up the volume, trying and failing to muster up some guilt for listening to her sing while I finish up. Her voice is…like a living thing. It gets inside my chest. So far, I’ve withheld her last Christmas gift: a booking to sing at an upscale whiskey bar in Breckenridge on New Year’s Eve. I was hoping it might take her mind off things.

Since Christmas night, I’ve asked her to sing to me as we go to sleep. So I can tell for sure: her voice is not affected by what happened to her mouth. She can hit all the notes, make all the sounds. I’m not sure why she doesn’t perform anymore.

Something hot and tight takes hold of the back of my throat. I load the gun up and walk slowly back to my Jeep. She told me the other night that not remembering what happened to her is a problem. That she feels like she can’t move on in the way she wants to.

I haven’t been able to think about it since then, but now I do, as I drive back toward our houses.

It makes me feel ill.

I’ve been thinking more and more what matters most for someone: honesty, cohesion? Or love? There shouldn’t be a choice between the two, but if there was? Then what?

What can I do for Gwenna? What can I give her? Everything I can, and my whole heart. Is that enough?

I get to her house before she does, and I’m so restless, I change clothes and jog up to the rock. I check her on my phone when I get to the enclosure gate. Still at the fucking hair salon. I run back up the hill again, so by the time she rolls into the garage, freshly styled and looking like a miracle, I’m dripping sweat.

So what does my sweet girl do? She takes my hand, kisses my sweaty jaw, and leads me in the laundry room, where she strips my wet clothes off and grabs me by the dick. We fuck on a blanket by the couch, Gwen riding me. She looks like an angel with her coppery hair swinging around her shoulders, bouncing off her creamy breasts.

I blow as she clenches my dick with her own orgasm, so hard I feel like I’m coming apart. I’m still hazy when she returns from wherever she went with a wet cloth. She kisses my lips before she drapes it over my face.

“Thanks,” I manage.

I feel weird, so reflexively, I hope she goes. That’s what I do—I realize more and more. When I have a problem, my instinct—my instinct as a former Operator—is to hide it. Hide me.

So I’m surprised how good I feel when Gwenna tucks the blanket over me and snuggles up beside me. She kisses my temple… My cheek. Her gentle fingers stroke my hair.

“I saw you awake the last two mornings.”

I cut my bleary eyes at her, and find hers warm and understanding.

I roll on my side, hesitant about bringing my sweaty self closer to her. But Gwen wraps an arm around me.

“If you want to talk, you know I’m here. And if you don’t, just fall asleep. I thought of doing stir-fry burgers, you know, with onions and green peppers and some sauce? I’ll wake you up soon—or the smell will.”

My eyes squeeze shut as my throat tightens. A tear slips out. I rest my forehead against her throat and swallow.

“Why do you love me?”

I didn’t mean to ask. The words just tumbled out.

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