Page 59 of Murder

But Dove feels guilty. He was covering for Breck and me when everything went down in Syria that day. It’s probably the only reason he still talks to me. Dove won’t blame me for Breck because he blames himself. For Breck, and me as well.

Finally I get him off the phone and walk across the living room. I lean against the slider door that leads onto the back deck, and I look out at the darkness.

I can smell her on me. If I swallow, I can taste her sweetness. I look through the glass, out at the nothing of the night, and I can see her satiated smile. I like her smile. The way the one cheek curves. It doesn’t look messed up to me. It looks funny, kind, and sometimes sly.

I bring my hand up near my face and inhale deeply, hoping to imprint the scent of her in my brain.

I’m such a sick fuck. A pathetic fuck.

I pull my right fist back, then punch the glass door. The fucking glass sheet actually cracks. The outer side of my right hand lights up like a blowtorch.

“Fuck me! FUCK!”

I walk over to the couch and sink down onto the rug in front of it. With a quick glance back over my shoulder—stairs are empty, thank fuck—I grab my hair and pull until my breaths are coming slower.

I can do this.

I can do this.

When she wakes up, I’ll take her home, and after that, no more.

I look down at my throbbing hand. At least it’s not my fucking cock.

It’s over.

I’m a fucking Operator. I am not a coward.

Something in me tightens—feels like tugging. When I think about those little squirrel salt and pepper shakers. I can hear her voice say “BFF.” Her smile is in my head. It’s everywhere.

I tell myself to hate it. Hate her. Because there’s not a different outcome. Not for us. There never was.

In the end, I hurt her. That’s our fucking fate. This sweet girl with her bears and her little cabin. She’s not mine. Not even for a night. Not even for a minute.

I walk upstairs again, and climb the ladder to the attic room. The little library is filled with amber light. There on the window seat, Gwen lies curled on her side, covered by a quilt. I stand there with my feet on the top step of the ladder, longing to go over to her.

I don’t even need to touch her. I just want to see her. Not through a windowpane or through a fucking scope.

Of course, I don’t go over to her. I head downstairs and pull my phone out of my pocket. Pull up Netflix, brew some coffee, get my .338. I step out onto the deck, leaving the door cracked so I hear her if she walks downstairs.

In the meantime, I can’t let this—I can’t let Gwenna—die so easy.

I sit on the deck for hours, scouring the internet. Licking her crumbs.

Gwenna White signs with Superior Model Management.

Gwenna White signs on for indie film End of Day.

Gwenna White signs with Forward Momentum Records.

“Gwenna White. Gwenna White. Gwenna White.” My breaths are clouds that linger longer than I would have thought.

When the cold has set in, when there’s nothing that I haven’t read and memorized and weaponized, I click on the link from the Breckenridge County Gazette, a small news brief dated January 1, 2012.

GWENNA

When I open my eyes, the first thing I think is that I’m obviously still dreaming. I seem to be floating, blinking out over the dark forest. Then I look down at the soft cushion I feel under me, and I remember everything. The window seat. Barrett. Barrett’s mouth.

I push myself up on one elbow as my eyes dart about the little attic room. He isn’t here. What time is it? I turn back to the window, but the night gives nothing. I guess I fell asleep. Guilt wars with glee inside me. After a long moment, I decide to let glee win.

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