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Story: Morally Grey

Chapter Three

Grey

T he murder weapon burns my skin despite the barrel’s cool temperature. I need to get rid of it, I know that, but every time I try to let it go, it feels...wrong. Each time I find a new spot, I fear it’s too obvious, too close to a camera or something. The cops already tagged my full face in a gas station video, and I can’t risk another fuckup.

A cop is heading my way, so I turn my face to avoid him seeing me. No one notices anyone in the city. Even when looking for a murderer, it seems. I raise my hood and walk the last block to my car.

I parked a mile away from the scene because I couldn’t risk the added cameras. I knew this area didn’t have any. After spending the night in a filthy alley, I’m ready to get back to safety, and my car is the best I have. As the morning sun bursts between the buildings, I slide behind the steering wheel, and the endorphins in my brain die when the gravity of what I’ve done pushes me into the seat.

I killed a person.

I fucking killed her.

But my guilt takes a back seat as a cop car flashes its lights behind me in the parking lot. I peer into the rearview mirror and curl my fingers around the gun. Shooting a cop wasn’t on my bingo card, though, so I release my hold on the weapon. No one else needs to die.

Then the car swerves around me, and the siren kicks on as he peels out of the parking lot. I live to see another day.

Not that it matters. Now that I’ve killed the greedy bitch, what purpose does my life have? I live in my fucking car. The life I built, the life I was building , went into the ground with my wife and child. I have nothing to lose because I have nothing.

I start the car and pull onto the main road. I need to get out of the heart of the city. The outskirts will be safer. Maybe I can find an abandoned house to sleep in. If I’m discovered, it could bring more heat my way, but I’m already in the fire. I jumped from the frying pan the moment I pulled the trigger and killed the greedy bitch.

The buildings eventually break apart, stretching out until there’s space for trees and grass between them instead of concrete and brick. Because the road is so empty out here, I notice when a car approaches behind me. It’s a dark SUV, and I’m pretty sure it’s an unmarked car.

A side street appears to my right, and I take it. If the SUV makes the turn, I’ll know. And sure enough, seconds later, the black behemoth makes the same right. I’m being followed.

Call it paranoia if you must. Actually, that’s probably exactly what it is, but why is that a bad thing? Paranoia is just a natural stress response, and I’m fucking stressed. I take the next left and hold my breath.

The SUV takes the same turn.

I’m a rat in a maze, and I’ve run myself into a dead end. The road leads to a driveway that winds into the woods. If I try to turn around now, my tail will have me cornered. The only thing to do is keep driving.

So I do. As if I belong here, I pull down the driveway and watch my rearview mirror. The black SUV shrinks as it turns around and disappears, but I keep driving until the driveway ends.

Ahead of me stands a small house. It’s just a little single-story number, with a shallow front porch and a serious weed problem. There aren’t any cars in the driveway, so maybe it’s safe if I have a look around. I’ve already committed murder. What’s another charge?

I ease the car to a stop near the garage. The massive door is closed, meaning the homeowners could definitely be inside, but this is a risk I’ll have to take. I haven’t eaten anything in days, and I can’t keep going like this.

This far out in the sticks, there’s every chance that whoever lives here hasn’t even heard about what I’ve done. I haven’t owned a cell phone in a while, but I remember social media. If murder isn’t the flavor of the week, my rebellious act might get buried beneath stories of plane crashes and missing pets. There’s always a chance.

And I’m going to take it.

I step out of the car and start toward the front door. A small statue stares up at me as I pass a narrow strip of overgrown earth that was clearly a garden at one point. It’s a concrete figure of a small girl holding a watering can, though one of her legs has gone the way of the dodo.

A large window looms above the greenery, and I peer inside. A woman with auburn hair lies on a faded blue couch in her living room. The television blares some morning news program, and I’m sick when my face flashes across the screen, followed by the tale of my misdeed. At least they don’t know my name yet. And that’s the big word, isn’t it? Yet.

I creep around the outside of the house, looking through the windows as I come across them, but she seems to be the only one at home. The single bedroom held no sign of masculinity, so I assume she lives alone.

Overpowering one woman isn’t so difficult, especially when I have a weapon. It’s a shitty thought to have, but there it is. I’ve thought it.

But maybe it doesn’t have to come to that. Sure, my story was all over the news this morning, but the woman is fast asleep. There’s no guarantee she learned about it yesterday. I’ll just give her a sob story and hope she buys it. If not, I have the gun.

Clearing my throat, I walk back to the front door and raise my fist to knock. I shuffle my weight between my feet as I wait, but I hear no noise on the other side of the door. After several silent moments, I hurry back to the window. She’s still fast asleep on the couch.

Back at the door, I knock a little harder this time. It’s too bad she doesn’t have a dog or a doorbell. Anything more effective than my fist against wood. But despite my frustration, I’m rewarded with the slide of a lock and an opening door seconds later.

The woman’s green eyes blink up at me as she tries to adjust to the land of the living. She’s quite pretty, in an unassuming sort of way. Very girl-next-door.

“My car...was giving me some trouble, and I think I’m lost anyway. Could I come in and use your phone? I don’t own one.” I offer her my most genuine and disarming smile and wait for recognition to dawn in her eyes.

She yawns and covers her mouth, then motions for me to come inside. “Yeah, come on in. Are you thirsty?”

As she walks a few feet into the house, she turns to see if I’m following. I’m not. Something doesn’t feel right about this. What single woman invites a strange man into her home?

“In or out, buddy? You’ll let in the bugs if you just stand there with the door open, and air conditioning isn’t exactly free.” She yawns again and swipes her hands over her eyes. “Coffee or tea?”

I clear my throat and step inside, closing the door behind me—after I remind myself that I have a gun. If she has anything planned, I’ll handle her.

“Neither,” I say. “I’m not really big on caffeine. I’ll just take some tap water, if it’s not too much trouble.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself, but if you’re worried about what caffeine will do to your body, I doubt you want what’s in tap water. Take a seat at the kitchen table.”

“I don’t really care about the caffeine, but I stopped drinking the stuff when my wife got pregnant. She said it wasn’t good for the baby, so I figured I could support her.” I sit down as instructed, not sure why I’m sharing such private information with the woman. I guess some subconscious part of myself wants to ensure I’m humanized in her eyes. Or maybe I just really miss my wife.

“You’re married?” she asks.

I nod. “My wife passed, but I’m still married.”

The woman freezes, then continues shuffling around in the kitchen. As she prepares the drinks, I look around at the odd decor. A ceramic rooster crows at me from the table’s center. On the counter, right beside the toaster, stands a large goose cookie jar. The finishing touch is a pig painting that details the different cuts of pork.

“Farmhouse chic?” I say as I study the odds and ends. “Way out in the woods like this, you could have the actual farm.”

She sits beside me at the table and slides the mug into my hands. Despite asking for water, I look down into a well of dark coffee. I haven’t had the stuff since before my wife’s death, so it feels wrong to drink it now, but the woman is staring. I raise the mug and take a sip.

“It’s decaf.” She plucks up her mug. “Sometimes I want a warm cup at night, but I don’t want to struggle sleeping.” She laughs and shakes her head. “I always have trouble sleeping anyway, so it doesn’t really help, but I tell myself it does.”

I chuckle to myself and take another pull from the warm mug.

“Is that why you did it?” she asks after a quiet moment. “Your wife, I mean. Was her death the catalyst for the murder?”

Lowering the mug, I clear my throat. “Excuse me?”

“That’s the question I’m dying to answer here. Why did you kill that bank CEO?”

“I think you may have the wrong man.”

She shakes her head and says, “No, you’re the right one. I should know. I drew your face.”

As if this is a completely normal thing to say, she rises from the table and returns with a sketch. And she’s right. That’s definitely me.

I raise the mug and chug the rest of the coffee. She’s probably already called the fucking cops, and I’m well and truly screwed. I never should have stopped here. I should have kept?—

“I made this too,” she says as she shoves a purple piece of paper into my hands. She sounds so proud, but I’m terrified as I look down and see my images plastered all over it. “I guess I don’t really need those anymore, though. Not now that the real thing is right in front of me.”

A wave of dizziness washes over me. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I was just going to come in, have a drink, maybe a bite of food, and pretend to make a phone call while I cased the place for something to sell for some gas money to get me out of the state.

“Are you going to turn me in?” I ask.

She smiles at me and grabs the papers. “I’m not sure. I haven’t decided yet. How are you feeling?”

I shake my head to will the dizzy feeling away, but it’s only growing. I pull the mug closer and look inside. Tiny white granules cling to the bottom of the glass, and judging by the bitter bite to the coffee, I don’t think it’s sugar.

“You drugged me?” I teeter on the edge of the chair as I try to stand. My hand goes for the gun in my waistband, but my hands are lead. My feet are lead. Everything is fucking lead, and nothing works.

“Whoops! You won’t be needing that,” she says as she snatches the gun away from me. “You might want to sit down. That shit hits really fast and pretty hard, and I don’t have what I need to patch you up if you split something open. I mean, I work at a hospital, but I’m no nurse.”

Her voice fades as I crumple to the floor. I’ve gone from the frying pan to the fire, and now I’ve transitioned to...whatever this is. Maybe turning myself in isn’t such a bad idea. I have no idea what this woman has in store, and I don’t think I want to find out.