Cassidy

 

Dropping off Brynn at the Millinocket Police Department was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, but now that I know the truth about myself—that I hurt people like my father did, that I am a killer like him—I take some small comfort in the notion that I got her away from me in time.

It’s the only comfort left in my wretched life, now that I have lost Brynn.

I had a long two-hour drive to think about Wayne, and I can’t say I’m sorry for killing him, which bothers me a lot. Taking a human life would tear apart a good man. But I’m not a good man. I don’t care that I killed him. Truth told? I’d kill him a hundred times if it meant keeping my Brynn safe.

But my stark lack of regret—of any shred of guilt or remorse—worries me. I took a human life. Shouldn’t I feel bad about that? That I don’t feels like another step into the hell that is my transformation into Paul Isaac Porter, another indicator that the change has begun.

When I get home, the sun is rising, but I can’t bear to witness its glory. I park the ATV in its stall, then climb off, stumbling blindly into Annie’s adjacent stall.

I am home and Brynn is gone.

And I will never love—or be loved—again.

I slump down the wall, onto the hay, pull my knees to my chest, and lower my head, letting my rage and fear and sorrow and sheer exhaustion roar up from within me in endless bellows of fury. I scream and yell, my worthless heart bleeding out in the darkest corner of my miserable world. I scare Annie half to death, and she bleats her worry until I stop, curling into a ball by my side and crying like a baby, my body shuddering with sobs until I finally fall asleep.

When I wake up, it’s late afternoon. Annie needs to be milked, and the girls need to be fed. Otherwise the place can go to hell. I don’t care about it anymore. Anywhere I look, I’ll see Brynn now. I’ll remember her smiles and sighs, the way she hummed the Beatles and giggled at me, the way her sweet body curved into mine, so trusting, and the way she said she loved me. For a sweet, short moment, she filled my bleak, sorry, unworthy life with color and tenderness.

This homestead, which was once my sanctuary, then my heaven, is my hell now. I can’t bear to stay, not that it’s even an option.

I need to move on. Immediately.

I’m a murderer now. The murdering son of a serial killer. It’s only a matter of time until they come for me, and when they do, there’s no way in hell they’ll believe I killed that guy accidentally. They’ll take one look at my last name, and I’ll be sent to prison.

Unless I run.

I am going to pack up what I need, including the rest of Gramp’s paper money, and I’m heading north. It’s still July, which means I have two months of fair weather. I should be able to find a new place to build my own cabin. Four walls with a makeshift fireplace and chimney by the end of September. I’ll wait out the winter, killing whatever I need to survive—a moose for meat, a bear for its skin, geese for their fat and feathers. I’ve never killed mammals before, but what does it matter now? I’ve killed a man, a human being. I’ve given up the only woman who could ever love me. I feel dead inside. The moral code I lived with all my life may as well be dead too.

As far as Annie and the girls go, I can either pack them up on my ATV and drop them off at the store, or I can set them free, knowing they probably won’t be able to fend for themselves in the wild for more than a day or two. They were my only friends before Brynn. I owe them more than death at the claws of a bobcat or a black bear, so I decide to take them into town tonight. I’ll tie up Annie at the store entrance. I’ll leave the girls in a covered crate by the door. Hopefully the people who work there will find homes for them. At least they’ll have a shot at survival.

I don’t want to risk being seen, so I’ll leave at one a.m., when the world is darkest. In the meantime, I can get myself ready to go, to leave this place behind.

Annie nudges me with her head, bleating softly, and I grab the metal bucket from the wall, placing it under her teats and kneeling beside her.

“I’ll take you to the store later,” I tell her. “I’m sure someone there will find a home for you. Hope so.” The only sound is the patter of milk hitting the metal bucket.

“I let Brynn go,” I confess to Annie, my heart still beating, even though it’s dying. “I had to. I’m no good for her.”

I hope no one bothered her. I hope a kind police officer woke her up and helped her figure out where she was. I debated leaving the note pinned to her shirt, but in the end, I decided to do it. I know how hard it was for her to say goodbye to Jem. She’s the sort of woman who loves long and hard, and if I didn’t at least attempt to give her some closure, she might waste time grieving us. I hope my note tells her just enough to let me go and gives her a jump start moving on from our month together.

A month.

It took only a month to change my entire life.

When it started, I was lonesome, but I knew who I was.

Now? I know what it is to love someone. I know what it is to be loved in return. And I know that I’m turning into a monster, just like I always feared.

I’m not one for self-pity, but damn if I don’t feel a little sorry for myself right this minute. I wasn’t born to a happy fate. I know that. But how I longed for it. And with Brynn, I almost tricked myself into believing that it was possible.

But it wasn’t.

It was never possible.

The sons of murderers don’t deserve to be happy.

They are born paying for the sins of their fathers.

I finish up with Annie and take the bucket of milk outside, dumping it into the woods. No need for it anymore since I’ll be leaving sometime tomorrow.

I usually take the bucket, rinse it out, and put it back on the hook in the barn, but there’s no point in doing that either, so I drop-kick it away.

Walking toward the cabin, I keep my head down until I get to the steps, stupidly hoping to avoid memories of Brynn as I step up onto the porch. But she is

everywhere.

I see her in the rocking chair, naked under a blanket, holding a cup of tea as the sun rises over Katahdin. I see her nestled on my lap, her hair tickling my throat as we watch the sunset together. I hear her sigh when I catch her peeking at me while I chop wood, and licking her lips to tell me she wants another kiss.

I open the door and step inside, and there she is again, watching The Sandlot beside me on the couch, walking through the living room barefoot, her small feet soft on the carpet. She’s in the kitchen, rinsing dishes and frying brook trout and turning to smile at me from the stove. She’s choosing a book from the shelves under the window, and she’s jumping into my arms to cover my face with kisses, and she’s . . . she’s . . . she’s . . .

nowhere.

A choking sob explodes from my throat, and I grab the first thing I see—Gramp’s wooden walking stick leaning by the front door—and I attack the room. I smash little knickknacks that belonged to my mother and overturn the coffee table with my foot. I throw a lamp and hardcover books into the plate glass windows until they shatter, and then I pulverize larger chunks of glass into tiny shards by beating them with the stick. I stalk into the kitchen and throw chairs against the cabinets, destroying both. I lift the table and hurl it into the living room, watching as two legs snap off when it crashes down on the upside-down coffee table.

I hate this house where I have hidden for most of my life.

It will never, ever be a home again.

Panting with exertion, I throw the walking stick away from me and brace my hands on the sink, bowing my head as a desperate, keening noise rises from my throat. My body shakes with a sorrow so profound and so complete, I can’t think of a single reason to keep on living.

Brynn is everywhere.

Brynn is nowhere.

I am lost.