My jaw is clenched so tightly, it’s like I’m biting steel and it might crack. My chest rises and falls with each angry breath. I take deep ones through my nose to calm myself. I sink into my chair and shut my eyes to squeeze out my fear. To shut out my guilt. When I open them, I look down at my hands. They’re quivering from too many things: my anger over the conversation with Jess, the fear of who’s out there waiting to do me in, the deep resentment I feel over being targeted and exposed across the nation, over feeling like a victim, and the worst, the sense that I am what I’ve never wanted to believe about myself.
A coward and a hypocrite.
I check my gun, lock my office up, and leave.
The mess will wait.
Outside my office building’s glass front door, a gang of reporters mills around the sidewalk. I curse the building for having only one exit. Ithink about going back up and staying for a little longer, but I can’t hide in my office. Or delay the inevitable.
When I step out, I’m accosted. Their questions—all echoing Jess’s—bombard me.
“What’s your confession?”
“Today’s your last day—what’s your plan?”
“How scared are you?”
“What are you going to do to protect yourself?”
They follow me and fold in tight on either side as I slither into my SUV and shut the door. In my rearview, a woman in a tan trench coat and a man in a thick blue sweater with a camera stand behind my bumper. I put my car in reverse and begin to creep out, but not before someone swings open my passenger door and hops in as I’m inching out. I realize I’ve forgotten to relock my doors with all the chaos.
It’s Jeremy.
“Jesus. It’s you. Get out of my car. Now.”
“Just drive.”
“No, get out,” I scream. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anyone anymore. I want to draw the killer out, and if it’s him, I want it on my terms. Not like this. Not an ambush in a parking lot.
My voice no longer sounds like mine. More like some shrill person I don’t know. The reporters pound my window.Bang, bang, bang.Jeremy’s too.
“Crosbie, just drive.”
Calm. Sincere. Means it.
I push on the gas, and finally, they jump to either side of my rig. I sweep past them and rush out of the lot.
A light turns red at the intersection down the block, so I stop. In my rearview, I watch them scurry to their cars. One reporter has already gotten into his, has pulled out, and is close to catching me at the intersection.Oh no you don’t.I run the red, drive two more blocks, ignore the stop signs, blow through those intersections, and swing a right. I pass several more blocks and take another right.
I follow the rules of the road again. I hit my blinker, pull over, and turn to Jeremy. “Get out of my car. I’m not sayingplease.”
“Hear me out.”
“No.”
“Time is ticking and you told me you wanted to confess.”
“I told you I’d get a hold of you.”
“I need more than a minute if I’m going to write something thoughtful.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Same way all of them knew. Good guess. Your office location is not a secret. And as the day has crept on without hearing from you, I got worried. I went to your house. Some other patrolman is there. I heard the awful news about the shooting. And the new guy wouldn’t tell me where you were, so I thought I’d check here.”
“Okay, well, I’m fine, but I still need you to get out.”
“But this is your last day. Things are bound to get more dangerous unless you confess something.”
