Chapter 2

Michael

She’s hurt. It’s hard to dispose of bloody bodies, especially in the winter, and I have to dispose of her. I failed because of her, and now she and her brother know too much. And if she hadn’t been relentless and unreadable like an itch I would’ve been able to kill her and leave her for the cops to find.

But no. Now instead of simply killing her I have to make sure no one ever finds her. It’s my own fault I dragged doing her in for this long, ever since I killed her sister.

But… but I wasn’t sure if she fit the criteria, my criteria for killing someone… I never imagined my personal reasons get in the way of my job. They did. Every time I observed her I wasn’t sure what on earth does this girl want. Maybe she was this depressed only after the death of her sister, maybe not. Either way, it took me too long to decide and in the meantime she and her brother discovered too much. It’s too late now. My gang is after me for my failure, for allowing everything to become too public.

But I can still fix everything and plead for forgiveness.

“Where’re we going?” She pipes.

I’m still deciding. I could sell her for prostitution, but she’d still be alive and it’s a risk. Kill her in a forest and bury her there? Digging the frozen ground would take forever.

I glance at her- an obstinate itch who sticks her nose into the wrong business. A freckled ginger, a seventeen-year-old who always gets into trouble. World’s full of them. Even I was one.

She stares at the road as persistently as I do. Her eyes widen when we leave the night city and hit the white fields. By the time the vehicle rolls through a deep temperate forest tears roll down her cheeks.

“I’m so tired,” she utters when I stop in a clearing. “Make it quick.”

Despite myself, I look at her. What am I doing? What on earth am I doing hurting this child who already has nothing to lose? Who strives for nothing, wants nothing. This is not why I kill. She’s not that kind a person I kill. She used to be, back when she had her sister, and dreams, and future, but not anymore.

And my gang mates? What’s the chance they’ll take me back to be their hitman? One fail is often enough for them.

I can still fix it, I tell myself.

“Get out.” I leave the car and early morning chill drifts under my jacket. She doesn’t and I open the door to her seat. “Get out.”

She snaps her head at me. “Why didn’t you leave me with them, with those thugs?”

“You’d be tortured for intel, used and killed.” I pull her out by her upper arm. And I finish the jobs I start. Usually.

She whimpers as she looks around. “And you’re so amazing. You’re just going to kill me. Like that is any better. After you used me for a damn shield.” She pulls up her sweatshirt, revealing a bleeding bullet graze for me to see.

Ignoring her I open my trunk and take two shovels, throw one at her feet.

“Why are you doing this?” She cries, hugging her side tightly. Thankfully, her blood hasn’t hit the snow yet. “Is it not enough death, not enough dreams broken?”

“Pick it up,” I tell her.

“To-to dig my own grave!” She calls out.

I walk ahead, probing the earth with my shovel.

A loud crash stops me in my walk and I twirl to find a side window of my car shattered. She shivers next to it, a piece of glass in her hand and one of her wrists pouring blood. Instantly, she cuts her second.

Fuck.

“At least I choose how I die.” She sways on her feet.

My heart skips a beat. None of my victims ever took their own life. All begged, pleaded for their children, their families, their bright future…

She turns and begins staggering away, bleeding all over the snow.

I grind my jaw and pull out my gun, aim at her head. Yet I can’t pull the trigger because she’s the last person I can kill. She’s too broken to die…

I grind my teeth and jerk my arm down, for the first time feeling my morals tear me apart. Only now do I understand what an idiot I am, thinking I’d never face a case like hers. This girl is a definition of a different case, from her knowing too much, to wanting to die. I don’t kill people who seek death. It’s a result of a life of suffering, and suffering people are ought to be respected. They deserve to live.

And yet, no matter the pain she’s in she didn’t shoot me. I thought I was a goner, but she didn’t take the shot when she had a perfect chance. I don’t know why.

She shrugs past a shrub and it shivers off its cover of snow. I sigh. A trail of evidence will follow her path if I don’t figure out what to do. I could chance a drive to the Stewmaker. A few days trip all the way to the Mexican border by which time she’ll definitely bleed out.

I could help her last, then make sure the Stewmaker kills her in a quick and painless way.

My chest eases. I can do it all, get rid of her like I should’ve, the way that pleases me, and then get back into my gang, proving them wrong. Seems like an okay solution to me.

The dawn lit shrubbery shakes as she falls to the ground and a scant cover of snow settles on her body. As I cross the clearing I lean my shovel against the car and angle my body to avoid further disturbing the bushes. The snow melts under her heaving breath. Her wrists bleed, but she cut herself like an amateur which makes it easier. When I squat down she shuffles her shivering fingers, putting her last strength into the gesture.

The middle finger comes up.

I don’t have a tendency to describe my victims, but this girl is the best and worst one I’ve ever had.