Chapter 2
Living a normal life after taking a life wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.
Every time I walked past a police officer, my heart raced. It was like my body betrayed me, forcing me to relive the moment when I saw Victor Salvani‘ s lifeless form crumpled on the cobblestones. I kept my head down, blending into the crowd, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that their eyes lingered on me a second too long.
Posters lined the city walls, stapled to every telephone pole and bulletin board. I
stopped at one, the paper slightly damp from a recent drizzle. The face staring back at me wasn’t entirely clear, but it was enough. The hooded figure with a partially visible cheekbone–it was me.
“One hundred million dollars,” I whispered to myself, reading the bold text beneath. “Dead or alive.”
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I forced myself to keep walking, my legs feeling like lead. The bounty wasn’t just a number. It was a beacon, drawing the desperate and the cunning straight to my shadow.
I returned to Edinburgh a week later, seeking solace–or maybe punishment. My mother’s hometown had always held a strange pull for me. Quiet, understated, and full of memories, both good and bad.
The cemetery was nearly empty that morning, the air heavy with the scent of rain–soaked earth. I carried a bouquet of lilies, my fingers trembling slightly as I approached her grave.
*Suzanne Gibson. Loving Mother. 1962- 2023.*
The words etched into the granite felt heavier than usual today. I knelt and placed the flowers at the base, my hands lingering on the cool stone.
“I miss you,” I whispered.
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The memory hit me like a tidal wave. I was sixteen, standing in a sterile hospital room, my mother’s frail body hooked up to machines that beeped rhythmically. She had begged for help, her voice weak, but the doctor barely glanced at her. He had been too busy checking his clipboard,
more concerned with protocol than a dying
woman.
“Insurance doesn’t cover this treatment,” he’d said, his tone clinical, almost bored.
The helplessness, the anger, the injustice- it had stayed with me. Something inside me snapped.
I closed my eyes, breathing deeply to push the memory away. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I murmured, my voice breaking. “I‘ ve become something you wouldn’t recognize.”
The walk back to my rented apartment felt longer than usual. It was as if every shadow held a threat, every footstep behind me a warning.
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I glanced over my shoulder, but the street was empty. Still, the uneasy feeling persisted. I quickened my pace, turning corners abruptly to see if anyone was following.
When I finally reached my door, I fumbled with the key, my hands slick with sweat. Once inside, I locked the door and pressed my back against it, taking a shaky breath.
Paranoia? Maybe. But I couldn’t afford to ignore the thought that someone might be investigating Victor Salvani’s death.
I dropped my bag on the couch and headed to the kitchen, grabbing a tub of ice cream from the freezer. Eating straight from the container, I turned on the TV, flipping through channels until I landed on the
news.
The anchor‘ s somber voice filled the
room. “Authorities are intensifying their search for the individual responsible for the murder of CEO Victor Salvani. The
suspect, whose face was partially captured
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on surveillance, remains at large. The reward has now increased to one hundred million dollars.”
I swallowed hard, the ice cream turning to a lump in my throat. They showed a clip of the grainy footage, I was standing in the shadow of the lamppost, my hood partially covering my face.
“Perfect,” I muttered, tossing the spoon back into the tub and setting it aside.
The call came just as I was considering turning off the TV. My phone buzzed on the coffee table, and I didn’t need to check the screen to know who it was.
“Marco,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.
“Daphne, what the hell is this?” His voice was sharp, laced with anger. “You‘ re filing for divorce? Out of nowhere?”
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s not out of nowhere, Marco. You know that.”
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“No, I don‘ 1,” he snapped. “I deserve an
explanation!”
“Check your messages.”
There was a pause as he did. The silence on the other end was deafening, and I could almost see his face as he opened the photos. Marco, wrapped around another woman in a dimly lit bar.
“Daphne, this isn‘ t
“Don‘ t,” I cut him off. “Don‘ t insult me by pretending. I’ve known for months, Marco. This is just the cleanest way to end things.”
“That’s what this is about?” His voice was incredulous. “You‘ re blowing up our marriage because of a few meaningless. nights?”
“You don’t get it, do you?” My voice rose, anger bubbling to the surface. “This isn’t just about just about you.”
“What the hell is going on with you?” he
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demanded.
I laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. “If you don’t know by now, Marco, you never will.”
His breathing was heavy on the other end, the silence between us thick and
suffocating.
Finally, he said, “You‘ re not making sense, Daphne. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
The question hit too close to home, and I felt my grip on the phone tighten.
“Goodbye, Marco,” I said, ending the call before he could respond.
I set the phone down, my hands trembling. The air in the room felt heavier, pressing
down on me.
