Chapter 13
The diner sits in the middle of the “downtown” area, which is comprised of two blocks of storefronts, most of them dilapidated and boarded up with crooked “Closed” or “For Lease” signs hanging in darkened windows.
From what I saw on my walk down the street earlier, the only places open were a pawn shop, an old family-owned pharmacy, a thrift store, a Chinese restaurant, a few bars, and this diner, all enveloped by the morning fog seeping through the spaces between buildings and enshrouding the street.
It’s identical to most rural southern small towns I’ve come across that aren’t tourist destinations.
Storefronts side-by-side in crumbling brick buildings that require more repair than anyone can afford, used for months or years, then closed never to be re-opened.
The only places you can expect to be a constant in towns like this are bars and churches.
The fog suspended in the gray sky makes it feel more like a ghost town, though. Too quiet aside from the occasional passing car, their headlights cutting through the air before being swallowed into the haze again.
I wrap my hands around the steaming cup of coffee on the chipped laminate table before me and shake my attention away from the window to stare down at the blank page of my notebook.
I’ve been staring at the open notebook all morning, hoping a plan might simply materialize before me, but unfortunately, the blank lines continue to taunt me.
Outside, the thick fog presses against the windows.
Once I take another sip of the slightly bitter coffee, I pick up my pen and write the words “Game Plan” at the top of the page, just to feel like I’ve started something.
In reality, I could stay here all day. The freedom to come and go as I please from Ambrose’s house is strange after spending most of my adulthood with Joel.
No trackers, no interrogations about where I’ve been.
Of course, the fact that I can't stay away for more than a day is probably all the reassurance he needs. He had said that the longer I’m away, the more it will drain my energy until I’m too weak to survive, and I’m not eager to test those limits.
Across the small restaurant, a group of five elderly men loudly complain about “the state of the world these days,” their conversation jumping from politics to the media to money then back to politics.
I tune them out at first until one man’s words snag my attention.
I’m not entirely sure which political leader they’re talking about, but the man’s rather crass proclamation of, “I wish that fucker would die. We’d all be better off without him,” is enough to make me think.
Every day, so many people who deserve to live full, happy lives pass away, like that little boy from the hospital. Most people don’t deserve to die early.
But some do.
A plan begins to materialize as I uncap my pen.
I used to think that wishing death upon anyone was too extreme.
People could change, after all, and they wouldn’t have the opportunity to right their wrongs if they’re dead.
But the longer I’m alive, the more I realize that some people will never change, no matter how many chances they’re given to be a good person.
It may be debatable as to whether or not people are inherently good or inherently evil, but one thing’s for certain: There are too many people actively making a choice to be evil, and if the death of one man means better lives for a dozen others, who am I to say he should live?
Who are you to say he should die, either? The voice in the back of my mind whispers, but I push it away. This isn’t the time for some internal philosophical debate.
I take another swig of my coffee and savor the bitter warmth as it washes down my throat. The waitress, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes but a kind demeanor, refills my cup without a word. I flash her a grateful smile and thank her, watching her walk away before I start writing.
My thoughts shift to overdrive as I jot down categories and ideas, my handwriting messy from my hurried pace. The list grows longer as I brainstorm, the dark ink smudging when I accidentally rub my hand across the words.
On the right side of the page, I do some calculations, now having a rough idea of who to target.
If the average natural lifespan of a person is seventy-five years, give or take, how many people would I need to target in order to fulfill the bargain?
I do a handful of calculations with different variations, but the number still seems so high.
Five hundred years is a lot of time, but at least I have some sort of motivation now.
The bell above the door tinkles as a customer enters, and I glance up, ensuring nobody passes too close to my booth and happens to see my list titled “Game Plan” that starts with the words, “Child abusers, rapists, murderers.” Not only would that be an incredibly difficult thing to explain, but the third entry might be a bit ironic given my new circumstances.
The diner is getting busier as patrons filter in for an early lunch, though, so I need to get going soon.
I look back down at my list and tap my pen against the paper.
A list of types of people who, in my opinion, do more harm than good.
The world is full of them, hiding in plain sight, preying on the weak and vulnerable.
If anyone deserves to die, it’s the people who actively and irreparably harm others. The ones whose deaths would result in others’ safety and wellbeing.
Joel flashes through my mind, but I quickly push the image of him away. I don’t want to see or think about him ever again. Even the thought of going back home makes it hard to breathe. There are plenty of men out there just like Joel, though.
But how do I find them? How do I choose? It would help if I had a phone to do any research, but I don’t.
I flip the notebook closed and take a moment to observe the diner while absentmindedly picking at the cracked vinyl of the booth.
It’s strange how normal everything feels—dishes clanking in the kitchen, old men debating politics, the oldies station playing on the tinny radio, families coming in for lunch before school starts back up next week.
And here I am, plotting murder in a family diner, trying to justify my actions with some twisted sense of morality.
I want to believe that I’m doing the right thing, that I’ll be making the world a better place if I go along with this plan I’m scheming up, though I know it’s not that simple.
But, I have to do something to fulfill my bargain, and this is the best idea I’ve had so far.
It’s also the most ethically ambiguous, but at this point, maintaining a sense of morality may be a futile effort when I’ve essentially gone and made a deal with a demon.
Or whatever the hell he wants to call himself.
The waitress approaches the table to politely ask me if I need anything else, but I can tell it’s her way of asking me when I’m going to leave.
The seats are filling quickly as more people file in for lunch, and I’ve been sitting here drinking coffee after having finished my breakfast well over an hour ago.
“I’ll just take the check,” I tell her.
“Perfect. I’ll be right back.”
I pay with the cash left over from what Ambrose had given me yesterday, and I’m about to leave when two women, probably in their mid-twenties, slide into the booth directly in front of mine. They speak loudly enough that I can’t help but overhear their conversation.
“So, what's the plan for tonight?” one of them asks the other over the sound of their plastic menus flopping open.
“I don't know. We could stay around here and hit the bars, which would be less money, or we could spend the night in the city.”
The girl with strawberry blonde hair who’s facing in my direction wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, the bars here suck, but I really don’t want to spend money on a hotel room either.”
Her friend sighs. “Yeah, that's fair. And we also can’t go to DJ’s.”
“Why?”
She drops her voice. “Don’t you remember what happened to Kayla? I don’t even care who’s working there, I don’t trust the place anymore.”
“Ohhh, I forgot about that. Poor girl.”
Their warning tone piques my interest. What happened to this girl that would make these women avoid one of the local bars?
I stand from my seat and slide my notebook off the table before tossing my purse over my shoulder and taking a timid step over to their booth.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I say in a soft, friendly tone. “But I'm here in town for a couple of months visiting an older family member, and I was planning on going out for a couple of drinks tonight. I overheard you talking about the bars near here. Is there, uh, one I should avoid?”
The two women exchange a glance before the more serious one nods.
“Yeah, DJ’s, right on the eastern edge of town.
” She lowers voice even more. “One of the bartenders has been drugging women.
A couple people reported it over the past couple of months, but the police weren't able to prove anything, so it was dropped.”
“Wow. That’s fucked up.”
“I know, right? And the bartender he works with most of the time is his best friend, so I’d be willing to bet they’re both in on it,” the other woman adds with clear disgust in her expression.
I blow out a slow breath. “Well, thanks for the info. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
They smile at me, and I return the gesture before walking away.
As I exit the diner, the bell above the door chimes softly before I step outside into the impenetrable fog.
It’s gotten thicker against the backdrop of the gray sky, and a boxy stoplight suspended from wires at the center of the intersection sways, the halo of the illuminated red circle bleeding into the air.
When I finally reach the car, I toss my notebook into the passenger seat and smile to myself.
No need to brainstorm anymore today; I have a plan and a potential target.