Page 112 of Brutal Truths

Dressed entirely in black, the man who has been playing both sides finally reveals himself. He’s holding a gun in one hand and a black neoprene mask in the other. He’s not here to talk. That much is clear.

“What do you want, Drake?”

He doesn’t answer.

Rather than indulge him, or give him the reaction he expects, I continue with my nightly routine and walk into my bathroom. He follows me, of course. Watches me pick up my toothbrush and prepare it as I would any other night.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” I turn on the tap, meeting his reflection in the mirror. “Your boss has no idea you’re about to set him up for my murder.”

His only response is a faint shake of his head.

“Well then, get on with it. What are you waiting for?” I wet up my toothbrush, my movement steady.

Staring straight ahead, I study my wrinkled face. The lines have deepened over the year, each one earned.

He lingers behind me, watching. No rush. No urgency.

I’m not sure what he expected of me. This is how I always imagined it would end. A man driven by greed, deciding I’d outlived my usefulness.

I didn’t cross this man, but he represents all those I have. Every life I’ve taken. Every wrong I’ve buried. Perhaps this is how it was always meant to end.

It seems only fair I face the same fate for allowing greed to rule my life.

I’ve stood where he’s standing now. Pulled the trigger. Chosen silence over mercy.

When he raises the gun, I close my eyes and wait for the darkness to come. When it doesn’t come, I know why. He won’t take the shot until I look at him. He wants me to see it coming.

So I do.

And I wish I hadn’t.

Because that’s when fear slams into me—sudden and absolute.

I’m not scared for myself. Never myself.

I’m terrified for the woman standing just out of Drake’s view, inside my wardrobe, watching him with tears streaming down her cheeks.

God… no.

Please don’t let him see her.

Please don’t let this be how it ends for her too.

Not my Alma.

Chapter 34

Alma

“Grams, I’m confused. Are you sure?”

Of course she is. My sweet granddaughter always tries to make sense of things. I know my mind wanders. Things slip. The past shows up when it shouldn’t, and the present doesn’t always stay put.

But this… this is clear.

“I know you think I’m crazy.”

“No, I don’t.” Her voice is gentle and careful, too careful. “Do you get things mixed up sometimes? Yes. But that doesn’t mean this is. Tell me what you remember. Maybe we can figure it out together.”