Page 84 of Kill For Me Kill For You
‘Ruth, that’s not him,’ said Scott.
Her face contorted, repelled by Scott’s tone. It only increased her anger.
‘That’shim. You killed the wrong man. You have to do it again. You have to kill him!’
Scott moved toward her, his arms open, as if to embrace her.
He knew what he had to do. There was only one choice now. Ruth needed help. She needed more than he could give her. Experts. Care. He couldn’t do this alone. He engulfed her in his arms, her head on his chest. She gripped him tightly and he wept for her, and himself. His eyes flicked to the TV. The press conference was over. They were back in the studio and above the anchor’s right shoulder they played images of Patrick Travers, and then footage of his tearful widow – broken, bereft and in terrible pain.
The weight of what he’d done in that hotel room sat like a brick in his chest. He couldn’t stand it. He knew then if he left it there it would eat him alive, like a cancer.
‘We have to do it, Scott,’ said Ruth. ‘We have to kill him. I can’t breathe knowing he’s out there. And he’ll come for me. He’ll come for us both.’
His thoughts drifted back to that day in school when he was lying on the shower floor, and the boots and fists rained down on him from every angle, sharp and hard, cutting his skin, bruising his ribs, splitting his lips, again and again and again, as if it would never stop. He could hear their voices, the bullies, laughing and shouting, and above it all the roar of the water on the tile. Getting louder in his head.
‘This has to stop. Everything has to stop,’ he said, and pushed Ruth away. Scott drew his cell phone out of his pocket, walked from the kitchen into the lounge.
The apartment was three floors up. He threw open the window, took a moment to close his eyes and listen. The cars on the street below, the sound of songbirds in the trees, and the faint smell of cut grass in the park across the street, and something else. Something sweet on the air. Moss or flowers. And with that sweetness, there was also the faint odor of decay.
His heart wouldn’t stop pounding. He couldn’t swallow. Mouth was too dry. Everything good in his life was gone. And it was all his own fault. Shame was a strange feeling. He felt disgust at himself, and his weakness, and his mistakes, and he couldn’t stand another goddamn second of it. If there’s enough guilt and shame, it becomes a fire. It consumes flesh like burning gasoline.
He stood there – immolated in shame.
He had to make the burning stop.
Scott dialed 911, told the operator he wanted police.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Ruth, coming behind him.
He held up a hand, a gesture to let her know to keep her distance.
‘My name is Scott Gelman. I killed Patrick Travers in his room at the Paramount Hotel last night. I’m at 211 Parkview, Hartford. I-I’m unarmed. My wife is here too. I’ve taken her hostage. She knew nothing about the murder. She’s innocent. And she’s sick. Please help her . . .’
Scott threw the phone on the couch. He took a long look at Ruth, her mouth open, shaking her head, unable to process what he’d just done.
‘I’m sorry. I fucked everything up. I love you,’ said Scott.
Then he turned away from Ruth to the open window. He put one foot on the ledge, ducked his head under the glass, then swung his other leg out. He sat on the windowsill, his legs dangling over the edge. It was a long way down.
He could hear Ruth coming toward him, her feet on the wooden floor. He thought about his life, and of all the things that would end. His parents would be heartbroken, but nothing could stop that now. He had killed an innocent man – their hearts would break no matter what. The only thing he could do was spare them the shame of his trial.
Scott closed his eyes, pushed himself off the ledge and felt the wind in his hair one last time.
47
Amanda
She asked to see the message history between Billy and Felicia. He had screenshotted the conversation, and so Amanda flicked through a series of images of their texts on Billy’s laptop.
To a casual eye, most of it looked like nothing more than a conversation between two lonely, damaged people. Some phrases from Felicia stuck out.
The pain changes, it dulls. It’s always there, but it doesn’t always rip your heart out . . .
It’s only the first two years that are the hardest . . .
When I told you it gets easier – I lied. I feel exactly the same way as I did the day they found his body . . .
We’re just talking right? Just you and me, hypothetically . . .
