My thoughts shift to overdrive as I jot down categories and ideas, my handwriting messy from my hurried pace. The list grows longer as I brainstorm, the dark ink smudging when I accidentally rub my hand across the words.
On the right side of the page, I do some calculations, now having a rough idea of who to target. If the average natural lifespan of a person is seventy-five years, give or take, how many people would I need to target in order to fulfill thebargain? I do a handful of calculations with different variations, but the number still seems so high.
Five hundred years is a lot of time, but at least I have some sort of motivation now.
The bell above the door tinkles as a customer enters, and I glance up, ensuring nobody passes too close to my booth and happens to see my list titled “Game Plan” that starts with the words, “Child abusers, rapists, murderers.” Not only would that be anincrediblydifficult thing to explain, but the third entry might be a bit ironic given my new circumstances.
The diner is getting busier as patrons filter in for an early lunch, though, so I need to get going soon. I look back down at my list and tap my pen against the paper. A list of types of people who, in my opinion, do more harm than good. The world is full of them, hiding in plain sight, preying on the weak and vulnerable.
If anyone deserves to die, it’s the people who actively and irreparably harm others. The ones whose deaths would result in others’ safety and wellbeing.
Joel flashes through my mind, but I quickly push the image of him away. I don’t want to see or think about him ever again. Even the thought of going back home makes it hard to breathe. There are plenty of men out there just like Joel, though.
But how do I find them? How do I choose? It would help if I had a phone to do any research, but I don’t.
I flip the notebook closed and take a moment to observe the diner while absentmindedly picking at the cracked vinyl of the booth. It’s strange how normal everything feels—dishes clanking in the kitchen, old men debating politics, the oldies station playing on the tinny radio, families coming in for lunch before school starts back up next week.
And here I am, plotting murder in a family diner, trying to justify my actions with some twisted sense of morality.
I want to believe that I’m doing the right thing, that I’ll be making the world a better place if I go along with this plan I’m scheming up, though I know it’s not that simple. But, I have to do something to fulfill my bargain, and this is the best idea I’ve had so far. It’s also the most ethically ambiguous, but at this point, maintaining a sense of morality may be a futile effort when I’ve essentially gone and made a deal with a demon. Or whatever the hell he wants to call himself.
The waitress approaches the table to politely ask me if I need anything else, but I can tell it’s her way of asking me when I’m going to leave. The seats are filling quickly as more people file in for lunch, and I’ve been sitting here drinking coffee after having finished my breakfast well over an hour ago.
“I’ll just take the check,” I tell her.
“Perfect. I’ll be right back.”
I pay with the cash left over from what Ambrose had given me yesterday, and I’m about to leave when two women, probably in their mid-twenties, slide into the booth directly in front of mine. They speak loudly enough that I can’t help but overhear their conversation.
“So, what's the plan for tonight?” one of them asks the other over the sound of their plastic menus flopping open.
“I don't know. We could stay around here and hit the bars, which would be less money, or we could spend the night in the city.”
The girl with strawberry blonde hair who’s facing in my direction wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, the bars here suck, but I really don’t want to spend money on a hotel room either.”
Her friend sighs. “Yeah, that's fair. And we also can’t go to DJ’s.”
“Why?”
She drops her voice. “Don’t you remember what happened to Kayla? I don’t even care who’s working there, I don’t trust the place anymore.”
“Ohhh, I forgot about that. Poor girl.”
Their warning tone piques my interest. What happened to this girl that would make these women avoid one of the local bars?
I stand from my seat and slide my notebook off the table before tossing my purse over my shoulder and taking a timid step over to their booth.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I say in a soft, friendly tone. “But I'm here in town for a couple of months visiting an older family member, and I was planning on going out for a couple of drinks tonight. I overheard you talking about the bars near here. Is there, uh, one I should avoid?”
The two women exchange a glance before the more serious one nods. “Yeah, DJ’s, right on the eastern edge of town.” She lowers voice even more. “One of the bartenders has been drugging women. A couple people reported it over the past couple of months, but the police weren't able to prove anything, so it was dropped.”
“Wow. That’s fucked up.”
“I know, right? And the bartender he works with most of the time is his best friend, so I’d be willing to bet they’re both in on it,” the other woman adds with clear disgust in her expression.
I blow out a slow breath. “Well, thanks for the info. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
