Wicked Break

Fifty-two

Carter followed me back to my place. I got out of my car and walked over to his monstrosity of an automobile. He cut the engine, but didn’t get out.

“We good?” he asked.

“Think so,” I said. “There’ll probably be some follow-up. But we’re good.”

Carter nodded. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

He stared at me. “Sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“I thought about taking you off him,” he said.

“I figured.”

“Wasn’t sure I could, though. You looked different.”

“I could’ve taken myself off if I’d wanted,” I said.

“I know. You want my opinion?”

“Always.”

“You made the right choice,” he said.

I shrugged.

He turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled to life.

“I mean it, Noah,” he said, leaning across the passenger seat so I could hear him. “It was the right thing and it always will be. He doesn’t die today, he would’ve come after you and the kid again someday.”

I didn’t say or do anything. I didn’t know how to respond.

He held up a hand, dropped the gearshift, and sped away down the alley.

I walked into my place and didn’t bother to turn on a light. I went to the fridge and pulled out a beer. Popped the top on the bottle. Set the bottle on the counter. Turned to the sink and vomited.

After a few minutes, I picked up the beer and walked out to the patio. The white foam of the collapsing waves was bright against the black sky and dark water. The wind blew softly off the water and up the sand, whispering against my face.

I didn’t regret killing Lonnie, but that didn’t mean it would ever feel right. No matter what Carter said or how I justified it, I had taken a life. I would always feel his skin on my hands and see his eyes as they ran out of life. Lonnie hadn’t added anything to the world, but I had taken something from it and I wasn’t sure how to get back on the right side of the line I’d crossed.

I stood there, watching the ocean and thinking about those things, for a long time.