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“But you killed them.”
“And I hate myself for that. Wesely shouldn’t have been in that warehouse. I told you boys to stay in the car. I was protecting you. Why did he get out of the car? Why?”
“It’s my fault, okay?” A reflection of my own guilt stared back at me. “I knew something wasn’t right, and I told Wesley to follow you, but I should have gone after you. Me.”
He slapped his chest, and rage simmered in his eyes, taking me back to our first months together, where every minute with him was accompanied by blind teenage rage.
“It’s not your fault.”
He aimed the gun at me, but his hand trembled.
“Don’t! Don’t shoot. You’re a good boy. You always were.”
“Shut up.” His chin quivered.
“I loved you and Wesley like my own sons. And your mom. You were family to me.” The truth burned in my chest, an ache that wouldn’t fade.
“Family?” Owen spat the word out like venom, but his eyes betrayed him, glossy with unshed tears. “You don’t kill family.”
His hand shook, and the pistol quivered with his indecision. He wasn’t the same boy who used to laugh in the face of danger. He was fractured by loss.
“Every night when I close my eyes, I see Wesley’s face.” The confession tore through me, raw and exposed. “I hear his voice, asking me why. There’s no peace for me, Owen. Not ever. I see Wesley’s ghost.”
“What?” His bottom lip wobbled.
“Wesley’s ghost. I see him all the time.”
“Good. I hope he haunts you forever.”
“You know why he haunts me, Owen? Because we loved each other, but we shot each other. Yet he died. And I lived. There’s no reasoning behind that. He’s as confused as I am.”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” His plea was a crack in his armor.
I risked another inch with my hands raised in surrender. “I get it. You want justice?”
“Justice?” he blurted. “I want fucking revenge.”
“Hey,” a man’s voice boomed from outside. “Is everything okay in there?”
“But at what cost, Owen? Spending your life in prison? Is killing worth that? You should live. Live for Wesley . . . he would want that. Walk away.”
My trailer seemed to hold its breath. There was only Owen, the gun, and my desperate plea to save a boy born into a legacy of revenge wars.
“Killing me won’t fill the void Wesley left behind. I will forever live with the guilt of what I did to your family. Don’t let my murder be the guilt that burdens you. It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it.”
“You don’t know what it’s like. I see him every time I look in the mirror. He’s looking at me. Glaring at me.” The gun dipped a fraction, and Owen’s eyes locked onto mine, a storm of love and hate swirling within.
“I know.”
“You don’t fucking know,” he screamed and yanked the gun’s aim back to my face.
“I’m calling the police,” the man outside yelled.
Good. Call the cops.
I raised my hands higher. “Owen. You’re right. Sorry.”
We stared at each other.
