Chapter Sixty – Charlie
CHARLIE
Mitchell doesn’t comment or break the silence as we walk through the front door of the safe house he brought us to. I’ve barely said a word since we left Adam Peterson’s house about an hour ago. There isn't really anything to say.
Walking into the open plan kitchen, I set the bag of take-out on the countertop as he tosses his keys down beside them, sitting in one of the two chairs tucked under a round table against the opposite wall.
“Don’t get too comfortable. We aren’t staying long,” he reminds me, and I simply nod my head in answer, pulling the burgers out of the bag.
Grabbing the two cans of coke they came with, I turn around and open the fridge. The light flickers on and I gag, immediately shutting the door.
If I doubted him when he said he hasn't used this place in a long time, I would be after the half a second the fridge door was open.
If I didn’t have much of an appetite before, I definitely don’t after that. I head deeper into the small apartment, leaving the coke cans on the counter and search for the bathroom instead.
Today felt like such a waste.
Closing my eyes, I tip my head back and let the water patter down my face, rinsing off the grime from today.
Lifeless eyes flash behind mine, his body slumped over the dining room table, hand lying on top of one of the pages from the report he should have filed years ago.
I hang my head, scrunching my eyes closed tighter in an attempt to block the image out.
Blindly, I reach for the tap and adjust the temperature. The shock of the icy cold water does the trick, pushing back the memory and pulling me into the present.
He wasn’t innocent. I remind myself, repeating the mantra I’ve been telling myself for the past hour.
I wasn’t even the one who did it. Not really.
I found the pills. Dozens of different opioid painkillers stashed away in the little cupboard over the rangehood in the kitchen. I gave them to Mitchell.
Mitchel ground them up and tipped the powder into an empty glass, filling it to the brim with whiskey in full view of Adam.
Mitchell put the glass on the table after placing page after page from the autopsy findings that I printed in front of Adam.
We didn't threaten him to drink it. Didn't force it down his throat. Adam took one look at them, at the crime he commited, and picked the glass up. He swallowed mouthful after mouthful down until it was all gone.
Then, as he set the glass back down, he had the hide to look me in the eye and say, "For what it's worth, I am sorry." His words have played on repeat in my head since.
If he was really sorry he would have come forward years ago. He wouldn't have let Michael kill someone and get away with it.
Am I any better? I stood there and watched as he died.
It wasn't quick, not like in the movies. I had plenty of time to pick up the phone and call 000. I could have changed my mind. I could have saved his life. But…I didn't.
I watched the drugs slowly take effect. Watched as he slumped forward, his breathing slowing until it eventually stopped. I watched the life drain out of his eyes.
It felt like hours until it was done. Until Mitchell finally got to his feet and pressed two fingers to his neck, confirming he was gone.
Then we left.
We left him there.
Dead.
We killed him.
I took part in ending someone’s life.
A life that let Michael get away with killing a young girl. Allowing him to trap Bonnie and inflict insurmountable pain on her. Because of Adam, Bonnie was forced to end Michael's life in order to save her daughter's.
Because of Adam, Jace and Bonnie were kidnapped.
This man could have stopped it all. He could have turned Michael in at any point. He could have been a decent human being and never have taken the money in the first place.
Because of him, all of this was possible.
And because of us…he's dead.
He wasn’t innocent.
I helped kill someone.
I have to live with that for the rest of my life. Just like Bonnie has had to live with killing Michael.