Page 168 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Now, Socrates went to his death defiant. He even told the court he deserved free dinners for life. I’m not saying I’m owed free meals. I work for my daily bread.” Timms jabs his finger into his chest. “But what I am owed is my good name. My pension. The love of a good woman. A little gratitude from the soft, spoiled citizens of this city.”

Timms goes on like that for a good five minutes, demanding apologies from every woman who ever crossed his path, every commanding officer who ever looked down at him, every dog that dared pee on his lawn while on a walk. I focus my eyes over his bald, sweaty head and try to guess how many of the books on the shelf he’s actually read.

Of the twenty-three, I’d guess two and a half.

When his ranting finally draws to a close, I pull myself back into my body for his final farewell.

“Stay awake, brothers,” he says, his voice vibrating with intensity. “Don’t let them tear you down. Don’t let those bitches⁠—”

Nope, still going. I tune him out again, having heard enough of the entitlement. The grudges and grievances. The justification for ruining lives. And we’re going to be complicit in amplifying his message.

Then again, Angie will be a free woman. The world will know who killed Paul. And this exhausting, dangerous man will be gone.

“That’s it,” Timms finally says. “That’s my Apology. I’m leaving you now, brothers. Not with hemlock, but something more modern. It’s an end suitable for a man of my worth.” His lips thin as he fights back a wave of emotion, and I’ll admit to curiosity about what he’s feeling in these final moments. Does he regret losing the woman he loved, or taking another man’s life? Does he regret dying in the presence of strangers?

“Don’t forget, my brothers: there’s value in an examined life.” He looks earnestly into the camera. “And fuck those ungrateful cunts. They don’t deserve us.”

He stands and stops the recording, exactly as Hugo maneuvered him to do. Timms really is going to die believing everything that just happened was his idea.

Hugo and I stay silent while he taps his phone screen a handful of times, then lifts his head, ready to receive praise for his performance.

“Well done, brother,” Hugo says with quiet approval, and if I never hear that word after tonight, it’ll be a-OK with me.

“He’s telling the truth,” Fi whispers in our ears. “It’s posted. I’ve got it from here.” She means sending it anonymously to the state’s attorney’s office and local media.

“Now finish it, make like sheep, and get the flock out,” Pell says.

Quinn snorts loudly enough for the mics to pick up. Then everything that happens next unfolds too quickly for me to make sense of in real time. Instead, it’s like flashbulbs going off, one after another, illuminating a different part of the scene each time.

Timms sets his phone on the floor at his feet.

Timms adjusts the cushion at his back, making sure it sits square with the seat.

Timms lifts the gun to his chin.

Timms blinks.

Timms lets his hand fall away.

Timms bends to reach for his phone.

Timms says, “I can’t. I can’t do it. I’ve gotta delete it. I can’t do it.”

Hugo steps forward.

Hugo kicks the phone away.

Hugo says, “The Crito, brother. Only a chosen death is an argument.”

Timms stands.

Timms turns his gun on Hugo.

Timms asks, “Why are you here, really?”

Hugo lifts his hands and says, “I told y⁠—”

Timms screams, “Why are you here?”