He continues skimming the channels before settling on the news. I groan, but at least it's a reputable station, unlike the sensationalist garbage Joel used to watch.
The leather couch creaks as I adjust, making sure to keep as much distance as possible between us. The news anchor's voice fills the room, and as much as I’d like to zone out, it might be good for me to see what’s been happening in the weeks I’ve been disconnected from the world.
It’s the typical sort of news content: the weather, crime, politics, and one positive story amidst the onslaught of negativity.
A story about a local pastor catches my attention. Apparently, he's under investigation for taking advantage of elderly members of the church, somehow gaining control of their properties and assets before they die then using the monetary value to his advantage. Despite this, he's still allowed to preach on Sundays, and his hearing isn’t for another month.
The camera cuts to him standing outside with a small brick church in the background. “God is guiding me through this journey,” he says. “These are difficult times, but I trust in His plan and that He will show us the path forward.”
Following his pious, self-righteous bullshit is a middle-aged woman with tears in her eyes, explaining how Pastor Gary Delaney managed to convince her late grandmother, who had been showing signs of dementia before she passed, to leave him many of her assets.
My fingers dig into the leather of the couch. If God is real—and according to Ambrose, some kind of higher power definitely exists—hopefully there's a special place in Hell for people like that. Men who stand on pulpits preaching virtue while living lives of calculated, intentional greed.
An idea begins to materialize in my mind. If this pastor is guilty, if he's been preying on vulnerable people who trusted him…
I might have another target on my hands. I could do my due diligence, question him (likely through unconventional means), and figure out whether or not he’s truly guilty. It’s only right to have a confession before atoning for your sins.
Before I can explore that train of thought further, the news shifts to the next story. My blood runs cold as I recognize the face on the screen—the bartender I killed.
“A local man was found dead this past weekend outside of his workplace. Jake O’Connor, a 31-year-old bartender at DJ’s Tavern, was found by his coworker in the alley behindDJ’s in the middle of his shift Friday night. Police are still looking for information related to death and believe foul play may be involved.”
The camera pans to a woman, presumably his mother, with tears streaming down her face as she speaks about what a kind, loving boy he was. “He always knew how to make everyone smile,” she says, sniffling and wiping her eyes with a tissue clutched in her hand.
My heart sinks.
A man about his age speaks next. “We were supposed to go on a camping trip next month that we do every year with a few of our friends. We all grew up together, same classes in elementary school and everything, but now it’s just—” he hides his sob in a feigned cough.
“Turn it off.” My voice comes out strangled.
I expect some sarcastic comment from Ambrose, some reminder that this was my choice, but he clicks off the TV without a word. The silence is a weight on my chest, suffocating me second by painful second.
In the quiet, doubt creeps in. Was what I didthatwrong? I thought I was doing something at least moderately good—if I kill one man who would have hurt dozens of women, that's a net positive, right? But I didn't consider the ripple effect it would have on those who loved him. Even terrible people have mothers and fathers and best friends. Those people don’t deserve to experience the pain of someone they love.
But at what point does the harm one person would cause outweigh someone else’s pain of losing them?
It’s all so fucking complicated.
His family and friends will be grieving for the rest of their lives, and it’s all my fault. I killed him, and I’ll have to live with the knowledge that I’ve ruined a family for the rest of my bitter existence.
“Would you care for another form of entertainment?” Ambrose asks, breaking the silence.
I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s only 7. Not late enough for me to fall asleep.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Here, come with me.” He stands and offers me his hand. I don’t take it, instead pushing my weight up from the couch and watching his arm awkwardly fall to his side.
I follow him into the adjacent room—his study. Or library. When he stops in the middle of the room and turns to look at me, I raise an eyebrow in a silent question.
He gestures broadly to the bookshelves that line the wall and stretch from floor to ceiling. The spines of countless books create a mosaic of colors and textures, some worn with age, others crisp and new.
“Reading?”
“Why not?”
“I need to be able to focus in order to read. Also, you know there's this cool thing called the internet that exists now, right? You don't need to collect thousands of physical books.” The sarcasm helps mask the lingering unease from our earlier conversation, gives me something familiar to hide behind.
He smirks. “I have internet here. But there's something about holding a book in your hands that makes reading more magical than simply staring at a screen.”
