Epilogue
MONROE
Two Months Prior to Present Day
Queens, New York
“Guns, axes, knives of all shapes and sizes and a scuba suit with a full tank of oxygen. I didn’t know you knew how to scuba dive, Monroe?”
“You can learn how to do anything by watching a handful of YouTube videos,” I answer with a shrug as I rearrange the items in my trunk so the weapons are concealed under the false flap.
“Thanks for not telling my mom I was here all summer,” I say earnestly. I was certain the first phone call my aunt Nikki would make when I showed up on her doorstep would be to Otisville, but true to her word, she didn’t.
“Not my place. Not my business,” my aunt responds. “For what it’s worth, Monroe, I always found your mother to be rather hard on you, placing blame where blame wasn’t deserved.”
“That’s the understatement of the century,” I scoff. “She’s a raging narcissist who used me as bait to lure in new boyfriends.”
Aunt Nikki takes in my words as she studies her shoes. “She cares about you though, in her own way.”
“I doubt she knows how to care for anything or anyone other than her own needs,” I say, slamming the trunk shut as I walk around to the driver’s side door.
“Your cousins told me what you asked for, by the way. You planning to make a run for the border after whatever it is you’re doing with all that weaponry is done?”
“Something like that,” I say. The regret and sorrow in my voice gives my true feelings away. I always did wear my heart on my sleeve.
My aunt nods. “A clean slate. I understand. You did well this summer, you know? You’ll always have a place with us, if you want to continue exploring your talents. Your cousins were quite impressed. They said you’re a natural.”
I huff a laugh, unsure if I should take that as a compliment or if I should be seriously concerned about my ability to switch off my morality when the situation requires a bit of finesse.
“Will you come back and visit, or at least find a way to let me know you’re alive?” she asks.
I nod. I owe her that much for the kindness she showed me these last three months. My belly was always full, and I had a bed to call my own. Most importantly, I had freedom.
“You know my new name, right?” I ask.
“I do,” she says with a sorrowful nod.
Closing the distance between us, I wrap my arms around the woman who let me stay with her rent-free as I pieced myself back together.
“Thank you,” I say, “for all that you’ve done for me.”
Tears fall from her amber-brown eyes. “I wish you luck, Monroe, for whatever it is you have planned and wherever it is you’re going.”
I offer her a grim smile as I open the car door.
“Monroe,” my aunt calls, turning around. “Forgiveness can be a powerful thing.”
I chew on her departing words as I debate how to respond. She means well, so I don’t want to hurt her feelings with a flippant response, but sometimes forgiveness is not the magic healing potion people believe it to be. Sometimes, forgiveness is a goddamn farce.
“It is,” I agree as I climb into the car. “But so is death.”