Chapter 33
"Do you believe in destiny? That even the powers of time can be altered for a single purpose? That the luckiest man who walks on this earth is the one who finds... true love?"
—Bram Stoker
The low drone of the radio over the humming of the car’s engine is the only sound filling the silence of the car.
Ambrose and I haven’t spoken much since we left the city a few hours ago after I had filled him in on the details of killing Senator Abbott and getting caught by his wife.
After leaving the murder scene, we had walked the few blocks to his car, where I had taken comfortable, clean clothes from my suitcase in the trunk and changed discreetly, not wanting to sit in a blood-spattered dress for a four-hour drive.
About halfway through our drive, I had started shaking.
Ambrose had told me it was likely a drop from the adrenaline, so we stopped at a restaurant in a mid-sized city for me to eat something and drink some water.
While we sat, Ambrose had used his phone to look up the news about Senator Abbott.
Sure enough, they’re searching for a suspect that Senator Abbott’s wife had described as, “a tall man, maybe six feet, wearing a black sweater and jeans.” Some of the articles mention that this was likely a premeditated attack due to the hotel cameras being cut directly before the murder happened.
The news that she had kept her word was enough to calm me down a bit, and the food and water grounded me enough to get my body to a more neutral state.
Now, we’re cruising down the highway as the adrenaline has mostly subsided, though there’s still a low, constant energy buzzing beneath my skin.
The bright red letters on the stereo glow with the time: 3:15 a.m.
I glance over at Ambrose, whose face is illuminated only by the passing streetlights in steady flickers of warm yellow light before becoming shrouded in darkness again.
His expression is calm, but his brow is furrowed slightly, as if he’s lost in thought.
I want to ask him what he’s thinking about, but it’s rare to catch a glimpse of him with such an unguarded expression, so I say nothing.
The burst of warmth in my chest gives me pause, and I lay my head back against the cool leather of the passenger seat and allow my thoughts to wander after a day of using so much focus.
My mind goes to the same place it often does—where will I go when I fulfill my end of our bargain?
What will I do with my life when I have the freedom to do whatever I want?
I’ve never had grandiose dreams of fame and fortune, but it’s been a long time since I’ve truly been able to think about what I want.
Many of my daydreams over the past few years have centered around the idea of living in a cabin in the woods, all alone, and being able to live life on my own terms. Tending to gardens, spending afternoons in the sunshine and winters curled up by a fire, working a job where I can help others but not centering my life around a career. A life of peace and quiet joy.
If I were here with Ambrose under different circumstances, this could almost be the life I dreamed of, with the cozy cabin on a large plot of land miles from the nearest town.
Hell, if he had simply asked me to come here instead of tricking me into a bargain that involves murder, I would have come of my own free will.
But that’s not what happened, I remind myself. Regardless of what has transpired, he’s still manipulative and inhuman. Even in times like this, where he seems no different than me.
We exit the highway and snake through the twists and turns of the mountain roads until the familiar crunch of gravel beneath tires announces our arrival home.
The silence between us isn’t broken until we’re standing on the porch while Ambrose unlocks the front door.
“How are you feeling?” He asks.
“Good, actually. One less person making the world a shitty place.”
He dips his chin in agreement. “Good.”
“I have to admit,” I say, attempting to lighten whatever somber mood he seems to have sunk into, “despite me being tricked into all of this, it’s been therapeutic in a really fucked up sort of way.”
His expression falls, but the shift is so quick I wonder if I had imagined it before he chuckles softly. “I’m glad. You seem to be so much more full of life lately.”
The observation catches me off guard, but I realize he’s right.
It’s not like I’m miraculously better from the darkness that’s plagued me for most of my life, but that deep, constant, gnawing pain in my chest has lessened into a dull, occasional ache.
It’s much more bearable than it used to be.
Maybe it’s because—ironically—I feel less trapped than I did before, like there’s at least a light at the end of this tunnel. Something worth fighting for.
I also have a purpose driving me. Sure, maybe it’s murder, but a goal is still a goal, no matter how fucked up it might be.
The silence stretches between us after I shut the front door behind me, neither of us knowing what to say after the day we’ve had.
“It’s late,” Ambrose says. “You should go to sleep.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to.” The residual thrill of today is still thrumming in my veins, and I’ll likely crash hard once it wears off. But there will be no sleep for at least a couple more hours.
“What shall we do, then?”
“Will you read to me?”
I wait for him to make some sarcastic quip, but he doesn’t. He simply smiles and nods. “Yes. Go shower and change into something more comfortable and meet me in the living room.”
I do as he says, going upstairs to peel off my dress and scrub myself thoroughly in the shower before slipping into sweatpants and a t-shirt.
By the time I make it back downstairs, he has also changed, though he makes the fitted black t-shirt and flannel pajama pants look just as good as the suit he was wearing before.
He’s thumbing through the books on the shelf when I sink onto the couch.
He turns his head toward me. “Any requests?”
“Hmm… I want you to read me the poem that means the most to you.”
He pauses a moment to consider, running a hand through his hair before he focuses his attention back on the bookshelf and hums to himself as he searches for a specific book.
Once he finds the small paperback, he reclines into his armchair facing me and glances up. “Ready?”
I nod.
Ambrose flips to a page in the middle of the book. “This is another one you’ll probably recognize, but I’ve loved it since the first time I heard it. It’s called ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.’” He clears his throat before he begins to read.
As always, his low, rich voice lulls me into stillness, but there’s a heaviness in his voice tonight that permeates every word.
The poem is a desperate plea from the narrator to a dying man, imploring him to fight against death instead of giving in easily.
“Rage, rage, against the dying of the light,” he reads. The line resonates throughout the poem along with the title line. It’s powerful yet heartbreaking.
When he finishes reading the poem, he sighs and closes the book.
“Does it still hurt as much as it used to?” I ask, knowing from the pained, sentimental look in his eyes that he’s thinking about the woman he lost so many years ago.
“It never really stops hurting, but with time, it changes into a different sort of pain. When you love someone so deeply, there will always be a part of you that’s broken once they’re gone.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be. It actually helps to talk about it after so long of keeping it inside. But like I said before, she lived a full, happy life, and that’s all she had ever wanted.”
“Do you think you’ll ever love again?”
Ambrose pauses. “Yes,” he finally answers, holding my gaze.
“Love is not finite. My love for her does not inhibit my ability to love again. But… it’s difficult to allow myself the vulnerability of caring so deeply for someone knowing I’ll outlive them.
I’m destined to experience the worst sort of heartbreak with every person I love. ”
Something clicks in my mind as I realize that this may be the reason he’s so guarded all the time, using sarcasm and cool detachment as a defense mechanism rather than simply doing it to get on my nerves.
I’m sure it’s easier to keep everyone at an arm’s length rather than expose yourself to the vulnerability of losing someone you care for.
I can’t imagine falling in love while knowing I’ll eventually have to witness that person’s death, especially after already experiencing that pain once before.
Not that I think he loves me, but with the two of us being in such close proximity all the time, it’s hard not to have some sort of fondness for each other.
“What about you?” He asks after a minute of silence. “With Joel?”
“I’m not sure I ever truly loved him,” I admit. “I thought I did once, but I think I loved the promises he made me and the vision he sold me more than I actually loved him.”
“That makes sense.”
“It sounds ridiculous, but this is the first time in my life that I’ve felt like there’s any sort of hope for my future.”
“And what will you do with this future you imagine for yourself?”
“I’m not sure.” My gaze drops. “I haven’t quite figured it out yet. I’ve spent so long just trying to survive that the thought of having full control of my life is a little intimidating.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. You still have plenty of time to figure it out.”
I nod but say nothing. Maybe I should start planning my next steps soon, but the thought of leaving here and never seeing Ambrose again is strangely disheartening.
We sit in heavy silence for a minute or two before Ambrose says, “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”