One False Move
Page 77
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Myron heard footsteps coming up behind him. He closed his eyes. It was as he expected. The footsteps came closer. When they stopped, Myron did not turn around.
“You killed her,” Myron said.
“Yes.”
“Do you feel better now?”
Arthur Bradford’s tone caressed the back of Myron’s neck with a cold, bloodless hand. “The question is, Myron, do you?”
He did not know.
“If it means anything to you, Mabel Edwards died slowly.”
It didn’t. Mabel Edwards had been right that night: He was not the type to shoot a woman in cold blood. He was worse.
“I’ve also decided to quit the gubernatorial race,” Arthur said. “I’m going to try to remember how I felt when I was with Anita. I’m going to change.”
He wouldn’t. But Myron didn’t care.
Arthur Bradford left then. Myron stared at the mound of dirt for a while longer. He lay down next to it and wondered how something so splendid and alive could be no more. He waited for the school’s final bell, and then he watched the children rush out of the building like bees from a poked hive. Their squeals did not comfort him.
Clouds began to blot the blue, and then rain began to fall. Myron almost smiled. Yes, rain. That was fitting. Much better than the earlier clear skies. He closed his eyes and let the drops pound him—rain on the petals of a crushed rose.
Eventually he stood and trekked down the hill to his car. Jessica was there, looming before him like a translucent specter. He had not seen or spoken to her in two weeks. Her beautiful face was wet—from the rain or tears, he could not say.
He stopped short and looked at her. Something else inside him shattered like a dropped tumbler.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Myron said.
Jessica nodded. “I know.”
He walked away from her then. Jessica stood and watched him in silence. He got in his car and turned the ignition. Still, she did not move. He started driving, keeping his eye on the rearview mirror. The translucent specter grew smaller and smaller. But it never totally disappeared.
“You killed her,” Myron said.
“Yes.”
“Do you feel better now?”
Arthur Bradford’s tone caressed the back of Myron’s neck with a cold, bloodless hand. “The question is, Myron, do you?”
He did not know.
“If it means anything to you, Mabel Edwards died slowly.”
It didn’t. Mabel Edwards had been right that night: He was not the type to shoot a woman in cold blood. He was worse.
“I’ve also decided to quit the gubernatorial race,” Arthur said. “I’m going to try to remember how I felt when I was with Anita. I’m going to change.”
He wouldn’t. But Myron didn’t care.
Arthur Bradford left then. Myron stared at the mound of dirt for a while longer. He lay down next to it and wondered how something so splendid and alive could be no more. He waited for the school’s final bell, and then he watched the children rush out of the building like bees from a poked hive. Their squeals did not comfort him.
Clouds began to blot the blue, and then rain began to fall. Myron almost smiled. Yes, rain. That was fitting. Much better than the earlier clear skies. He closed his eyes and let the drops pound him—rain on the petals of a crushed rose.
Eventually he stood and trekked down the hill to his car. Jessica was there, looming before him like a translucent specter. He had not seen or spoken to her in two weeks. Her beautiful face was wet—from the rain or tears, he could not say.
He stopped short and looked at her. Something else inside him shattered like a dropped tumbler.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Myron said.
Jessica nodded. “I know.”
He walked away from her then. Jessica stood and watched him in silence. He got in his car and turned the ignition. Still, she did not move. He started driving, keeping his eye on the rearview mirror. The translucent specter grew smaller and smaller. But it never totally disappeared.
