He merely nods and returns to his book, dismissing me as easily as if I were a passing thought. The casualness of it all grates on my nerves. How nice it must be to care so little about everything.
I grab his keys from their hook and hurry outside. The Camaro purrs to life beneath me, and I find myself remembering the mall I passed on my trip to the hospital, which is good since I didn’t get any directions from Ambrose in my rush to leave the house.
The mall is a refreshing reminder of the normalcy that exists outside my current circumstances, filled with people living their ordinary lives. They browse racks of clothes, chat over coffee, window shop with friends. They all seem so blissfully unaware of the darker things at work in the world.
I don’t exactly have a plan for myself yet when it comes to fulfilling the bargain, but I know I’ll likely need to blend in in different environments. So, I pick a store filled with business attire first and peruse the racks of blazers, slacks, dresses, and blouses. After trying on some items, I walk out with a filled bag in hand. Next, I opt for some more casual wear, things that will allow me to blend into a crowd without notice.
Eventually, I have everything I think I need, but I still dip into a store that has a little bit of everything. I pause at a rack of dresses, sliding the silky fabric of a little black dress through my fingers. When I lift it off the rack and hold it against my body, I realize it would barely reach mid-thigh. Joel would have lost his mind if he saw me evenlookingat something like this. The thought makes me snag it immediately.
With a good chunk of money still in my pocket, I decidemakeup comes next. It wasn't exactly a priority when I fled home, but now, who knows what I might need. I take my time with testing out various foundations and concealers on the back of my hand before picking some out, along with eye makeup, lipstick, and a contour palette. If Ambrose didn’t want me spending all this money, maybe he shouldn’t have given it to me. There’s nothing like a spite-fueled shopping trip, after all.
Next time, I’ll stash more away instead of spending so much, because he’s not getting any change back. He probably stole it all, anyway. He doesn’t seem to have a job, but he’s clearly not worried about finances considering how much he so casually handed over. It makes sense that someone so unbothered by murder would also have a propensity for theft.
The food court calls to me before I leave, the scent of greasy Chinese food and pizza wafting through the air. I settle into a corner table with my mountain of bags at my feet and a plate of orange chicken before me. Each bite is pure bliss, and for the time I’m eating, I pretend that everything in my life is perfectly normal—I’m just a normal woman shopping at the mall and eating amongst the cacophony of the food court and the buzz of people around me.
When I finally return to the cabin, laden with shopping bags, I head straight upstairs without looking for Ambrose. He's probably in one of his usual spots with a book, wearing his usual expression of detached amusement. I don't care.
In my room, I spread out my purchases across the bed, examining each piece and considering all the different contexts I could wear it in. I’ve got the clothes to allow me to fit in in almost any environment, so now comes the hard part.
I need to figure this out. I need to gather five hundred years—well, maybe closer to four hundred now, thanks tothat poor boy. If I only take the lives of those who are already near death, it could take decades for me to fulfill my end of the deal. I need to find a way to do this as quickly as possible without completely destroying what's left of my already fragile mental state.
But how?
CHAPTER 13
I'm sitting in a corner booth at a local diner on Main Street of the nearest town with a notebook and my third cup of coffee on the table before me. The smell of grease and coffee mingles in the air, but the restaurant itself is in decent shape for something that looks straight out of the 70s, with wood paneling covering the bottom half of the white walls and dome lights above the booths.
The diner sits in the middle of the “downtown” area, which is comprised of two blocks of storefronts, most of them dilapidated and boarded up with crooked “Closed” or “For Lease” signs hanging in darkened windows. From what I saw on my walk down the street earlier, the only places open were a pawn shop, an old family-owned pharmacy, a thrift store, a Chinese restaurant, a few bars, and this diner, all enveloped by the morning fog seeping through the spaces between buildings and enshrouding the street.
It’s identical to most rural southern small towns I’ve come across that aren’t tourist destinations. Storefronts side-by-side in crumbling brick buildings that require more repair than anyone can afford, used for months or years, thenclosed never to be re-opened. The only places you can expect to be a constant in towns like this are bars and churches.
The fog suspended in the gray sky makes it feel more like a ghost town, though. Too quiet aside from the occasional passing car, their headlights cutting through the air before being swallowed into the haze again.
I wrap my hands around the steaming cup of coffee on the chipped laminate table before me and shake my attention away from the window to stare down at the blank page of my notebook.
I’ve been staring at the open notebook all morning, hoping a plan might simply materialize before me, but unfortunately, the blank lines continue to taunt me.
Outside, the thick fog presses against the windows.
Once I take another sip of the slightly bitter coffee, I pick up my pen and write the words “Game Plan” at the top of the page, just to feel like I’ve startedsomething.
In reality, I could stay here all day. The freedom to come and go as I please from Ambrose’s house is strange after spending most of my adulthood with Joel. No trackers, no interrogations about where I’ve been. Of course, the fact that I can't stay away for more than a day is probably all the reassurance he needs. He had said that the longer I’m away, the more it will drain my energy until I’m too weak to survive, and I’m not eager to test those limits.
Across the small restaurant, a group of five elderly men loudly complain about “the state of the world these days,” their conversation jumping from politics to the media to money then back to politics. I tune them out at first until one man’s words snag my attention. I’m not entirely sure which political leader they’re talking about, but the man’s rather crass proclamation of, “I wish that fucker would die. We’d all be better off without him,” is enough to make me think.
Every day, so many people who deserve to live full, happy lives pass away, like that little boy from the hospital. Most people don’t deserve to die early.
But some do.
A plan begins to materialize as I uncap my pen.
I used to think that wishing death upon anyone was too extreme. People could change, after all, and they wouldn’t have the opportunity to right their wrongs if they’re dead. But the longer I’m alive, the more I realize that some people will never change, no matter how many chances they’re given to be a good person.
It may be debatable as to whether or not people are inherently good or inherently evil, but one thing’s for certain: There are too many people actively making a choice to be evil, and if the death of one man means better lives for a dozen others, who am I to say he should live?
Who are you to say he should die, either? The voice in the back of my mind whispers, but I push it away. This isn’t the time for some internal philosophical debate.
I take another swig of my coffee and savor the bitter warmth as it washes down my throat. The waitress, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes but a kind demeanor, refills my cup without a word. I flash her a grateful smile and thank her, watching her walk away before I start writing.
