“How can something feel so violently wrong and still be the right thing to do?” I asked, giving in to my imagination.
Olivia shrugged. “It’s the way life is, I guess.”
Not good enough.
“Maybe I should get rid of the gun and block the whole thing out of my memory. It could work.” The words were empty. I knew I had to go. If only my legs would work.
Jumping off the bed, Olivia held her hand out for me to take.
I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to.
After a few long moments, I gently held her hand. Olivia bent her head down, forcing my eyes to meet hers until I was completely focused on her. “I’ll go with you. I’ll be your Marta. She saved me by helping me find myself again. Turning yourself in is the key. You know it. You feel it.”
I did.
My legs moved.
I let go of Olivia’s hand and grabbed my backpack, placing the gun inside, the last ingredient. Standing up, I threw the backpack over my shoulders and headed out the door.
One last thing.
Before I could chicken out, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed.
“Hello?” Josh’s voice sounded tired and groggy. (Probably because it was six in the morning.)
But I had to tell him.
I had to let him know I was a killer.
“Josh, it’s Jeraline.” My voice shook.
“Jeraline? It’s so early. Is everything okay?”
“I shot someone.”
“What?” He was awake now.
“I shot someone by the alley. I’m turning myself in.” You told him, now hang up.
“Jeraline . . .”
“I thought you should know.”
I hung up.
There. Done. Now he could move on. Not that he had much to move on from, but I’d never forget him.
I walked out of my room, my apartment, down the stairs, until I was outside again.
Punching up the police station’s address in my phone, I began to follow the map like Frodo trudging toward Mount Doom, but instead of a ring, I was throwing in a revolver. The closer I got to the police station, the more I wanted to run back home.
Olivia held my hand, reminding me she was still there and that she’d lead me to my destination.
Step by step, my fate sealed before my eyes until I was in front of the entrance to the police station.
Glass double doors stood before me. Reaching for the metal bar on the left door, I pushed it open and entered.
Olivia was gone. I had to finish the rest of this journey alone.
An almost empty lobby sprawled out before me with a metal detector about ten yards away with three police officers manning who came in and out of their castle.
No other people were around.
The squeak of my shoes was the only sound in the room as I walked slowly toward the looming door-frame-shaped security detectors and the X-ray conveyor belt platform next to it. I didn’t want to be shot on sight pulling out a gun, but I wanted to turn myself in along with the gun, so I took my backpack off my shoulders and readied the Wanted sign of the man who attacked me.
As I arrived at the front of the conveyor belt, the officer with the name tag “T. Cortez” motioned to my bag. “Open your backpack, please.”
I was going to puke.
Please don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me.
With shaking hands, I unzipped the backpack, then handed it directly into Officer Cortez’s hands.
I placed my hands up in surrender to show them I didn’t have anything else on me.
Here I go.
“Officer Cortez, my name is Jeraline Arnold, and I’m here to make a confession. There’s a gun in that backpack, and I shot the man in that Wanted poster with it. His blood is on the shirt inside.” My voice shook, but I hoped I sounded sane and calm.
Officer Cortez’s body tensed at my admission, and he motioned for the other two officers to stand next to me while he examined the interior of my backpack. He carefully pulled out the giant revolver and raised an eyebrow in surprise, then checked the bullet chamber all without comment. Glancing at my attacker’s Wanted poster, he showed it to the other two officers, and to my horror, they nodded in what I could only describe as recognition.
“We’ve been looking for you,” Officer Cortez said solemnly.
“I thought so.” Time was up.
“Follow me.”
Holding back tears, I tried to swallow, but the lump in my throat made it impossible.
Making our way past the metal detector, I followed Officer Cortez into the belly of the police station, which basically was a bunch of cubicles, not as intimidating as I had imagined. Wending past the main area, the officer led me down a hallway with a line of closed doors. Picking one in the middle, he unlocked the door, opened it, and held his hand out for me to enter.
An interrogation room.
Deep breath.
I was expecting this.
One table, two opposing chairs, stark and empty. No two-way mirror though. That was different from every TV show and movie I’d ever seen. Motioning to either chair, Officer Cortez almost looked . . . friendly? I must be imagining things. “Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
I sat down on one of the seats as the officer shut the door behind him, locking me in alone. Okay, I didn’t hear him locking the door, but maybe since I turned myself in, I wasn’t a flight risk.
Placing my hands on the table, I tried to get them to stop shaking.
Both Edmond Dantès and Hercule Poirot popped in across from me, leaning against the wall.
Poirot spoke first with a nod of approval. “I’m proud of you for turning yourself in.”
Edmond sneered in disgust as he eyed Poirot, then turned toward me. “Now you’ll be in prison and completely helpless. At least with your freedom you had options.”
Poirot huffed. “Looking over her shoulder forever? What kind of life is that?”
Crossing his arms, Edmond said, “The kind where the bad guy got what he deserved
