Chapter Theodore #2
Brian Reed Dies of Self-inflicted Gunshot Wound
His parents died. Suicide. Survived by a son, Theodore Reed.
Emotion hardens like a golf ball lodged in my throat. My hands feather over each sentence. I can’t believe the words jumping off the page.
Braxton Ames arrested in the murder of Kathryn Reed.
Another article.
Anonymous donor pays for University of Kentucky Professor, Kathryn Reed’s Funeral and donates two million dollars to memorial fund …
I need to walk away. In another life, one where I didn’t have a closely-estimated date with death, one where I still had internet access, one where I felt invested in the outcome of whatever this is … in that life, Theodore Reed’s secrets would consume me.
I need to walk away.
“There’s always your next life,” I mutter to myself as I close and lock the lid of the trunk as well as my painful curiosity.
OH MY GOD!
I’m dead. There is a hand over my mouth, my chest feels like a grenade just exploded, and a large arm wrapped around my waist has my back pinned to a solid body. My cancer must be pissed off it’s not going to get the chance to steal my life.
“Why are you in here?” The whisper at my ear is the Theodore Reed from my first day on Tybee Island. It’s the spawn of revenge and murder. This embrace holds no passion and even less of a promise that my lungs will ever receive oxygen again.
The calloused paw over my mouth prevents me from answering as my tears spring free. He’s going to kill me. My instincts were right.
“Are you going to scream?” The edge to his voice makes my knees tremble.
I shake my head.
His hand slides from my mouth. “Did you open it?”
I swallow back wave after wave of fear as he keeps my back pinned to his chest. “No,” I whisper, unable to find my true voice. “It’s locked.”
“You’re lying.”
“Everything is a lie.” My voice of reason is so much slower than my vocal impulsiveness.
“Open it.”
“I don’t have the—”
“OPEN THE FUCKING LOCK!”
Normal people who live sheltered lives would convince themselves that they could never die at the hands of a lover.
I’ve known men who have killed their wives, mothers of their children, because they opened the wrong drawer in a wardrobe or arrived home from the supermarket thirty minutes too early.
I hold no illusions that Theodore Reed won’t kill me.
I open my fisted hand to reveal the pick I used. His body stiffens against mine, like in spite of the truth he knew, the confirmation that I did in fact invade his privacy still sends a small wave of anger—maybe even disappointment—coursing through his body. He loosens his hold on me.
I step forward and unlock the trunk, but I don’t open it.
Remorse. It’s all I feel right now. My journey to find the best part of my soul and live out that life for as long as I have left has failed. I am a thief. Theo was right. Curiosity will kill the cat.
I can’t bring myself to turn and look at him. The last memory I have of his face was the grin of appreciation for my naked body standing in front of him. It held something innocent, beautiful, and worth holding on to forever. That’s the only memory I need.
“Open it.”
I do. It’s not worth my effort to look shocked at the contents. He knows I know.
Easing my hand over the edge, waiting to see if he’ll stop me, I reach for the handgun. Why isn’t he stopping me? He doesn’t move, not one inch. Maybe he’s already holding a gun to my head and I just haven’t turned to see it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wrapping my hand around the gun.
I’ve never held a gun. My father never wanted me to be that thief.
I close my eyes, letting my palm acclimate to the cold metal grip.
“I shouldn’t have crossed that line.” My eyes pinch tight, wringing more tears out as I lift the gun.
“I’ve loved every minute of our lie.” My finger curls around the trigger as the blunt edge of the muzzle kisses my temple.
Every bad thing I’ve ever done, every failure, every moment of grief, every word of my terminal cancer diagnosis and stolen future hits me like a torrent of negativity that pulls me under, numbing my senses.
Fuck you, cancer.
I pull the trigger.
Nothing.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He rips the gun from my hand.
My back collides with the wall as my steps falter. I blink through my tears that blur Theo’s face marred with utter horror—wild eyes, mouth agape. He shakes me, hands gripping my arms to the point of pain.
Pain.
I feel it in unforgiving waves.
I’m still alive.
Oh. My. God …
Did I just—
“What the fuck did you just do? Jesus …” His hands go from my arms to fisting my hair as his forehead presses to mine.
I’ve never heard such agony in his voice.
“Did you…” each word seems to rip from his throat “…did you think it was loaded?”
Reality shatters this out-of-body experience—the glass box that separated me from life. “Y-Yes,” I whisper.
I wanted to die. For one second—I wanted to die.
Pain.
Love.
Anger.
Regret.
For one moment … it was all too much. I wanted out. I. Wanted. To. Die.
What’s happening to me?
His nostrils flare with each breath that washes over my face. Pressing a hand to the wall next to me, he pushes off and turns toward the trunk. “You don’t get to fucking take your own life.” He riffles through the contents.
Numbness. For one second it swallowed me up. Now, I’m left drowning in an ocean of shame.
My blank stare lands on his hands shoving a loaded clip into the gun. In the next blink, he slams me back against the wall. The impact punches the breath from my lungs. Theo presses the gun to my temple much harder than I had done.
“I take your life. You don’t get the fucking choice. Do you understand?” The devil dances in his eyes, cold as the metal pressed to my head. His jaw clenches while his whole body shakes, even his hand quivers as he digs the gun into my skin.
Theo or cancer?
Cancer is so unoriginal. I choose Theo.
“Then pull the trigger.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, muscles pulsing along his arms and up his neck. “Go.” His hand falls limp to his side, the gun dangles from his finger. “GO!”
I suck in a breath, suffering more from the sight of this man—eyes shut and chin down—than I would have had he pulled the trigger.
I turn and move toward the door with an unsteady gait.
“We never talk of what’s in the trunk ever again or else …” He leaves the end hanging in the air.
I nod once then keep walking.