Chapter 41 #4
“I said STOOOOOP!”
My scream ripped out of me like another bullet. It came from somewhere deep and dark. It was so loud, it hurt my ears.
Myers flinched and curled up on the floor.
Silence fell after that. Except for his quiet whimpers.
We sat there. Him bleeding and crying. Me staring at nothing.
I didn’t know how much time had passed.
Seconds. Maybe minutes.
But he finally spoke again.
“You have to believe me. Please. I didn’t kill him.”
“Why should I believe a filthy liar who tried to kill my grandma?” I shot back.
Something inside me pushed against his story. Myers was nothing but filthy scum. A rapist and liar. And my mother was so innocent and sweet. Had always been there for me. Unconditionally loving me. How could that person have done such a thing?
“If what you’re saying is true,” I asked slowly, “why did you attack my grandma?”
He flinched.
“I … I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he said. “I just wanted to scare her. Make her stop looking for me. The police had no idea who I was and that I was at the crime scene, and your grandma was changing all that.”
“You broke her nose and her leg,” I countered with hate.
“Things got out of hand!” he cried. “I wanted to scare her a little. Then she fell out of the window, and the dog came after me. I … I—”
I stood quickly. Two steps and I was in front of him. Towering.
He looked up at me with wide eyes, shaking. Like some abused victim. Like he was the one wronged by life.
“I didn’t do it,” he begged. “Please. Please help me. I’m dying. I didn’t do it. The knife … it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t me.”
Slowly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the picture of the knife again. And looked at it. Really looked at it. The paper trembled between my fingers as something clicked.
That knife in the picture.
It was our garage knife.
The one we used to cut boxes open on recycling day. The one that sat in the drawer by the workbench. That unique chip in its handle from when Dad dropped it while cutting up boxes after Christmas left no doubt.
My breath grew shallow.
Then another memory hit.
In the elevator, Dr. Rothchild said he remembered seeing a patient named Alderwyn. If I did the math, it lined up. It would have been right before the murder happened.
Before everything.
Which would mean she knew. My mom knew about the cancer. She had known all along she was going to die.
I shook my head and put the picture back into my pocket.
If there was a moment to feel hate for my mother, this should’ve been it. But, instead, a tear slid down my cheek. Hot and burning. Not for me. For my mom.
All that endless pain she carried. It must have been so scary to get the cancer diagnosis, knowing my dad would destroy us kids after she was gone.
With his drinking. And weak selfishness.
He would fight my grandma over custody even if he didn’t want us.
Just out of spite. Unless someone like Amanda took care of him.
Contained him. Mothered him like he was a big child.
So his kids had a chance to grow up somewhat normally.
And Zach was a problem in all this, as he was trying to take Amanda away. Wouldn’t even let her leave. Threatened to destroy her if she divorced him to be with us.
Who knew where we all would be right now if it hadn’t been for Zach’s death?
If Amanda hadn’t been able to marry my dad and hold everything together after my mom died and my grandma had a stroke, nothing would be as it is right now.
And thinking about all this, all I could feel for my mom was love.
The boundless love of a son for his mother.
A woman who had sacrificed her eternal soul to save her kids. And her useless husband.
Sure, Zach didn’t deserve to die. But he was an abusive piece of shit who would have destroyed us all if Amanda chose us over him. And blaming Myers for his murder …
My gaze dropped to the filthy man bleeding in front of me.
This man had broken my grandma’s nose and leg.
Broke into an elderly woman’s house with a knife.
Did he really think I’d believe he went there to chat?
He also hurt the prostitutes. Raped them without paying.
Broke one of their noses as well. The list of violent charges on his record was a mile long, including the rape of a young college student in a grocery store parking lot. And he possessed child pornography.
So, no.
My mom did nothing wrong when it came to this man.
And yet.
As I looked down at him, begging for his life, a different question crept in.
Was I a monster if I let him bleed out here? Would it haunt me for the rest of my life?
I leaned over him.
“Take off your sweater,” I told him.
He obeyed instantly. It took effort. He winced, teeth grinding, hands shaking as he peeled the blood-soaked sweater over his head. It dropped to the floor next to him.
“Move your hands so I can see your wound.”
He hesitated for a moment, then did that too.
Crimson blood kept pushing out of the small, round entry wound in his stomach. Not spraying. Not spurting. Just steady. Thick. It had pooled beneath him.
My fingers pressed into his abdomen.
He screamed.
The muscle felt tight. Hard.
“No artery was hit,” I said calmly. “Or you’d be dead already.”
His breathing came fast and shallow, but he looked relieved.
“But with that blood loss,” I continued, watching the way it kept seeping out, “I’d say an organ was hit. It’s not going to stop bleeding on its own. You’ve got maybe one, two hours tops without help.”
“Then help me,” he begged. “Stitch me up. Or call 911. Call them.”
I rose and looked for his phone.
Mine was still at the hospital. On the stairs.
I walked over to the couch and grabbed his phone. His keys lay beside it, so I took them as well.
Then I turned and walked back to him.
“Call 911!” he groaned. “Quick!”
And I could. Tell them he kidnapped me. Tell them there was a weapon on the kitchen counter, and I took it and shot him when he got distracted. The gun wasn’t registered. Nobody would question my story. I was the one kidnapped.
The only problem was … that wasn’t the story I wanted to tell. Not after what I’d just heard in here.
So, I just stood there, staring at him. Phone and keys resting in my hands.
Blood pooled under his body. The smell grew stronger.
“What are you doing?” he gasped. “You said you’d call an ambulance!”
My mouth tightened. “That’s not what I said. I said I would look at your wound.” I gave a small shrug. “And I did. It doesn’t look good. An hour. Two, absolute tops. So good luck. You really need it.”
His face drained.
I bent, picked up the Florida sweater beside him, and stepped around him in a wide circle. Then I walked toward the door.
“No! Please!” Myers begged. He dragged himself across the floor, leaving a thick smear behind him. “Please help me! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”
The door handle felt cold, even through my latex gloves.
I opened it.
And left.
There wasn’t much more left to say about all this.
Behind me, his screaming shifted. Meaner. Hateful.
“You’re a fucking murderer just like your whore mother!” he yelled.
The door shut.
“Fuck you, murderer!”
I locked it with the keys.
“Fuck you and that cunt!”
Outside, the night breeze hit my face. Cold and fresh.
I threw the keys deep into the bushes. They vanished somewhere in the dark with a jingle.
For a moment, I just stood there, breathing.
Strangely, it felt like something bad had finally ended. Like I had finally cut loose a horrible piece of the past.
As I rushed back to my car, Myers’ screams faded about a quarter mile down the path.
The night was silent now.
When I got to my car, I pulled off the hospital booties first, then the gloves, then the surgical cap, and shoved everything inside a plastic bag I grabbed from my car.
Including the Florida sweater. I put Myers’ phone in a different plastic bag, so I could later wipe it clean and throw it away in a public trash can.
Everything now had to happen fast. Time was not on my side.
The engine roared to life, and I drove back toward the hospital.
My thoughts ran wild as I drove.
But not with guilt.
I probably was supposed to feel horrible about Myers, but I didn’t.
The hate was still there. Solid. Heavy. If he had just come forward and confessed from the beginning, maybe things would’ve been different.
But attacking my grandmother and almost killing her, no matter what story he fed me in that hut, wasn’t something a man who deserved to live would do.
And parts of me doubted Myers’ story.
A man who raped women could murder just as easily. And lie, of course. That much was obvious. So maybe my mom was innocent. She could’ve still been the victim who fled that night. And the trauma broke her. Stole her voice forever.
Another thought forced itself into my head.
My father.
God, I hated him.
If he had been stronger. Less of a liar. Less of a drunk. Less of a cheater. Less of everything. Then maybe my mom wouldn’t have worried so much about leaving us behind with him.
I tried to picture it. A scared mom sitting in a sterile doctor’s office, hearing she was dying. The cold air. The ticking clock. The word cancer stabbing her like a knife. Then thinking of her children. Knowing she’d leave them in the hands of a man who would destroy them.
That kind of fear probably hurt more than the disease.
So, what choice did she have with a father like mine?
Thinking about it now, I saw it all more clearly.
My dad had spun an abusive web around her. Not with fists. Not with bruises anyone could see. But with passive-aggressive hate. Insults disguised as jokes. Cheating. Lying. Drinking. Wearing her down until there was nothing left.
He would apologize afterward. Promise the moon. Swear it would never happen again. For a while, there’d be peace. A honeymoon phase. Then the drinking. The lies. The cheating. Again.
A cycle of hell my mother was trapped in.
I hated him. I really did.
Why didn’t she leave?
I’d asked myself that question so many times before. Late at night, lying in my bed awake.