Chapter 18
Ifind myself drifting into the living room after dinner, drawn in by the soft glow of the TV and, oddly enough, Ambrose's presence.
He's sprawled on the couch, remote in hand, flipping through channels.
With it being one of the first cool nights as summer gives way to fall, he has lit a fire in the fireplace, and it casts the room in a soft, orange glow.
“Mind if I join?” I ask, hovering in the doorway.
“Not at all.”
He continues skimming the channels before settling on the news. I groan, but at least it's a reputable station, unlike the sensationalist garbage Joel used to watch.
The leather couch creaks as I adjust, making sure to keep as much distance as possible between us. The news anchor's voice fills the room, and as much as I’d like to zone out, it might be good for me to see what’s been happening in the weeks I’ve been disconnected from the world.
It’s the typical sort of news content: the weather, crime, politics, and one positive story amidst the onslaught of negativity.
A story about a local pastor catches my attention.
Apparently, he's under investigation for taking advantage of elderly members of the church, somehow gaining control of their properties and assets before they die then using the monetary value to his advantage.
Despite this, he's still allowed to preach on Sundays, and his hearing isn’t for another month.
The camera cuts to him standing outside with a small brick church in the background. “God is guiding me through this journey,” he says. “These are difficult times, but I trust in His plan and that He will show us the path forward.”
Following his pious, self-righteous bullshit is a middle-aged woman with tears in her eyes, explaining how Pastor Gary Delaney managed to convince her late grandmother, who had been showing signs of dementia before she passed, to leave him many of her assets.
My fingers dig into the leather of the couch. If God is real—and according to Ambrose, some kind of higher power definitely exists—hopefully there's a special place in Hell for people like that. Men who stand on pulpits preaching virtue while living lives of calculated, intentional greed.
An idea begins to materialize in my mind. If this pastor is guilty, if he's been preying on vulnerable people who trusted him…
I might have another target on my hands. I could do my due diligence, question him (likely through unconventional means), and figure out whether or not he’s truly guilty. It’s only right to have a confession before atoning for your sins.
Before I can explore that train of thought further, the news shifts to the next story. My blood runs cold as I recognize the face on the screen—the bartender I killed.
“A local man was found dead this past weekend outside of his workplace. Jake O’Connor, a 31-year-old bartender at DJ’s Tavern, was found by his coworker in the alley behind DJ’s in the middle of his shift Friday night.
Police are still looking for information related to death and believe foul play may be involved. ”
The camera pans to a woman, presumably his mother, with tears streaming down her face as she speaks about what a kind, loving boy he was. “He always knew how to make everyone smile,” she says, sniffling and wiping her eyes with a tissue clutched in her hand.
My heart sinks.
A man about his age speaks next. “We were supposed to go on a camping trip next month that we do every year with a few of our friends. We all grew up together, same classes in elementary school and everything, but now it’s just—” he hides his sob in a feigned cough.
“Turn it off.” My voice comes out strangled.
I expect some sarcastic comment from Ambrose, some reminder that this was my choice, but he clicks off the TV without a word. The silence is a weight on my chest, suffocating me second by painful second.
In the quiet, doubt creeps in. Was what I did that wrong?
I thought I was doing something at least moderately good—if I kill one man who would have hurt dozens of women, that's a net positive, right?
But I didn't consider the ripple effect it would have on those who loved him. Even terrible people have mothers and fathers and best friends. Those people don’t deserve to experience the pain of someone they love.
But at what point does the harm one person would cause outweigh someone else’s pain of losing them?
It’s all so fucking complicated.
His family and friends will be grieving for the rest of their lives, and it’s all my fault. I killed him, and I’ll have to live with the knowledge that I’ve ruined a family for the rest of my bitter existence.
“Would you care for another form of entertainment?” Ambrose asks, breaking the silence.
I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s only 7. Not late enough for me to fall asleep.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Here, come with me.” He stands and offers me his hand. I don’t take it, instead pushing my weight up from the couch and watching his arm awkwardly fall to his side.
I follow him into the adjacent room—his study. Or library. When he stops in the middle of the room and turns to look at me, I raise an eyebrow in a silent question.
He gestures broadly to the bookshelves that line the wall and stretch from floor to ceiling. The spines of countless books create a mosaic of colors and textures, some worn with age, others crisp and new.
“Reading?”
“Why not?”
“I need to be able to focus in order to read.
Also, you know there's this cool thing called the internet that exists now, right?
You don't need to collect thousands of physical books.” The sarcasm helps mask the lingering unease from our earlier conversation, gives me something familiar to hide behind.
He smirks. “I have internet here. But there's something about holding a book in your hands that makes reading more magical than simply staring at a screen.”
“Wait, you have internet connection here? You mean to tell me I could have been keeping myself entertained in ways that don't involve staring out windows or walking in the woods?”
“In theory. But you don't have a device, and I try to keep my time online to a minimum.”
I roll my eyes, slumping back against the couch. “You would.”
“Suit yourself. Be bored, then.” He shrugs and picks up a book from the coffee table, the leather binding smooth and well-worn. He gestures to the wall of shelves again in offering before sinking into an armchair and cracking open the dark green, leather-bound book.
I stare at him until I realize he’s not going to speak any more, but instead of picking up a book of my own, I ask, “What are you reading?”
He lifts his gaze to where I’m still standing in the middle of the room. “Poetry.”
I snort, then realize he's being serious. The thought of this dark, intimidating man reading poetry is ridiculous. “You're reading poetry? Seriously?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You don't strike me as the poetry type.”
“And what type would that be?" His long fingers wrap around the book as if he’s holding something fragile, and I pretend not to notice the way he seems to almost caress the edges of the cover.
“Oh, I don't know. Empathetic, in tune with their emotions, not committing frequent acts of murder…”
“To be fair, some of the best poets have been ones known for their debauchery.” His lips quirk up at the corners, and for a moment, I can almost forget what he is. What we both are.
“Whatever.” I wave him off, trying to ignore the way the firelight catches in his eyes, turning them into burning coals. “So what poems are you reading then?”
“This one happens to be a personal collection of some of my favorites.”
“But why wouldn’t you read a real book? Like something with a story?”
“Some of these do have a story,” he retorts.
I can’t say I’m an expert on poetry—probably because I actively avoid it as much as possible in favor of actual books—but I can’t imagine there’s any world where reading a poem would be more fun than picking up a fiction novel.
Ambrose must be able to tell that I’m not at all convinced, because he goes on. “Poetry is a lot more than what you might think,” he explains. “And I’d be willing to bet there’s some you’d enjoy.”
“I don’t know about all that. ‘Tolerate’ may be a better word than ‘enjoy.’”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” he says, his eyes gleaming with the challenge. “Let me read you this one.” His deft fingers immediately begin flipping through the pages, with him clearly having a certain poem in mind.
“Ugh, what did I do to deserve such torture?” I say with a dramatic flourish, even as I sit down on floor next to the fireplace and snag a blanket from the couch to wrap around my shoulders.
“If you hate it, I’ll never say a word about poetry to you again.”
“Deal.”
He clears his throat. “This one is called The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.”
His voice is low but clear over the sound of the crackling fire.
“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.”
I want to close my eyes as I listen, the words painting a picture of a man meeting a woman in secret while a bright, full moon lights up the dark night.
But instead of closing my eyes, I watch Ambrose read, his gaze cast downward and a loose strand of dark hair falling over his forehead, the fire illuminating one side of his face with a soft orange glow.
In the poem, the forbidden lovers speak, the highwayman telling the woman—
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
Ambrose reads, and surprisingly, I’m enraptured by the story of the poem.
Forbidden love, danger, and fatal sacrifice.
When he reaches the end, the repetition of the lines from the beginning now full of despair instead of hope, my chest tightens with unexpected emotion.
I let out a slow breath, the silence in the room only broken by the soft thump of him shutting the book.
“So? What do you think?” he asks softly.
Fuck, he was right about the fact that I’d like it. That was incredible. “It was good,” I admit, but my voice cracks.
He smiles softly, not in a smug I-told-you-so sort of way, but in a proud, satisfied way. I can’t help but smile back. This is the first moment since I’ve been in this house that I feel like I’m almost able to relax.
The moment stretches between us, delicate as a spider's web and just as fragile. The firelight dances across his features, softening the sharp edges that usually define him, and I find myself studying the way shadows play across his face. In this moment, something seems to have shifted between us, and I’m afraid if I move or speak, I’ll break the spell.
He's still holding the book, his thumb absently stroking its leather spine, and the gentleness of the gesture is at odds with everything I know about him. The same hands that have surely ended countless lives now cradle these pages like they're something precious.
The fire crackles, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. The warmth seeps into my bones, and I close my eyes for a few seconds, savoring the simple comfort.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring directly at me, and I quickly look away. He may not be a good man by any stretch, but there’s a humanity in him that I haven’t seen until today.
That almost scares me more than his darkness.
I should move, should break this spell before it takes root too deeply. But the fire is warm, and the poetry still echoes in my mind, and for just this moment, I want to pretend that I’m not his captive, but instead that we're just two people sharing a peaceful evening.
“What got you into reading poetry?” I ask.
“I’ve always loved reading, so I read a little bit of everything when I was younger. But poetry is beautiful because it allows someone to say so much in so few words. Every word, every line, every stanza is a precise sort of beauty.”
“That makes sense, I suppose.” I stand to examine the titles on his shelves more closely, but my eyes are drawn to a shelf with a clear, locked casing that contains dozens of notebooks. “What’s the deal with the notebooks?” I ask, pointing toward the case.
“Another hobby I’ve had for a very long time,” he says. “I’ve kept a journal since my twenties, before I became this way, and I’ve continued to keep one since.”
Wow. One hundred years of journals chronicling his life up to this point. My curiosity burns. What I’d give to read those, to have a peek inside the mind of this enigmatic man.
“Can I read them?”
“No.”
“That’s what you do with that leather notebook, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“What do you write about?”
“Everything.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the clarification.”
“You’re welcome to read anything else in here, though. I know you’ve already been sneaking some books when I haven’t been around.”
My cheeks warm. “I’ve had to keep myself entertained somehow, and the door is always open.”
He chuckles. “That’s fine.”
“Have you lived here your entire life?” I ask. The massive collection of books would suggest so, but I can’t imagine living for so long and staying in one place.
“No. This has been my home since I was a young man, but I’ve lived in many places over the years—England, Italy, Spain, and all over the United States.
This is simply the place I consider to be my true home, so I always end up coming back.
Since I don’t age, I have to leave here every twenty years or so, and stay away long enough that the townspeople don’t start to get suspicious. ”
“That makes sense. But I guess I don’t really get that feeling. Nowhere has ever really felt like home for me,” I admit.
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know. They’re just places I’ve lived, but none of them have ever given me that sense of comfort I’d want from a home.
Though I’m sure that has to do with the fact that I’ve never been truly wanted in any of those places, either.
I went straight from living with parents who didn’t want me to living with a husband who only wanted me for the power it gave him. ”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, his eyes flashing with something soft and understanding.
“It’s okay. I’ll find my home eventually,” I say, desperate to believe that’s true. After I’m able to leave here, I’ll find a place to call my own and turn it into the home I’ve never had.
Maybe then, I’ll be able to put this all in my past. I can only hope the future will be kinder to me.