Margie McGill: The Second Case

I stalk the outside of the building. I have spent days upon days tracking footprints—digital and physical—to arrive here. This is it. This is where I’ll find him. It’s an abandoned church building, which isn’t what I was expecting.

This man, Jeremiah Kelly, stole a one-of-a-kind watch from my client, who was crying and ranting about it being a family heirloom. The cops had told her that there was no possible way to track down a watch.

But I did. That’s why she came to me, a private investigator.

It was easy, actually. Especially because my client had a picture of it. Reverse-image searching can really work wonders.

I nudge open the door, stalking inside. My right hand rests on my pistol, though I don’t intend on using it. I never intend on using it. In fact, that’s the only thing I will never do in my line of work. I will never take a life.

The thief is kneeling at the altar, head dipped. “Atoning for your sins?” I ask.

He leaps to his feet and stares at me, backing up against the altar. “How did you—”

“You posted a picture of yourself on FaceBook, wearing the watch. Idiot.”

Jeremiah blinks. “What?”

“I’ll give you a minute to catch up.” I lean against the wall, whistling a quiet tune under my breath.

“What watch?”

I give him a look. “Don’t play dumb. The one you stole from Wilma Herodson. An old woman, seriously? And not only that, but it was a one-of-a-kind watch. The only memory she had left of her mother.” I push off the wall. “I’m going to get it back to her, if you don’t mind.”

Panic flits across his eyes. “But…”

I groan. “But what?”

“No one was supposed to—”

“Find out? Yeah. Did you hear me say it’s one-of-a-kind, or do I need to tell you a dozen or so more times?”

He pulls something from his pocket. When he flicks it, a blade is revealed. I put my hands up.

“Come on, now, Jeremiah. There’s no need to be difficult. I only know everything about you.”

His jaw flexes. “You walk out that door, and we can forget that this ever happened.”

“I walk out that door, and something much worse than me comes for you. Just give me the watch.”

He blinks, slowly. Weighing his options. Something in his face changes, and my hand flies to my pistol, drawing it just as he lunges at me, his knife over his head.

Without thinking, I pull the trigger.

There’s a guttural scream.

There’s gunpowder on my hand.

There’s the stench of a substance—one I don’t even want to think the name of—filling the air.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

I can’t breathe.

The red crawls toward my feet, twirling through the stark-white carpet, slinking across the hardwood floor. It’s splattered on the altar he was praying to. My hands tremble harder and harder until my weapon clatters to the ground, firing itself with a deafening blast as I turn over my heel and run.

I don’t know where I’m running.

My entire life…my entire life, this is all I’ve wanted. To be a private investigator. Now I finally have it.

Not after this, though.

The one thing I swore I’d never do.

The only crime I pledged to never commit.

The single length I wanted to never go to.

And it’s only my second case.

My feet pound against the pavement, heart racing in my ears. Margie McGill, PI. Margie McGill, ruined.

My phone rings in my pocket, and I gasp. I yank it out; it’s my client. I can’t make myself care. I throw it—hard—against the nearest brick wall, and it shatters.

No one can find me now.

I’m not sure how long I run before I collapse on an abandoned dirt road and retch. My esophagus burns, and my throat burns even harder as my lunch appears on the ground. I throw up again and again before flopping onto my side and rolling to my back.

I’m not licensed to carry. I’m not licensed to even be an investigator, actually. My falsified identification has worked any time I need it. But this? I’d have to deal with the cops. I would probably go away for life, even though it was self-defense.

There must have been another option.

I just can’t see it.

God, my mother is going to be so disappointed when she finds out.

My father…I don’t even want to imagine what he’ll think.

I’ve destroyed my family. I’ve destroyed my life. I’ve destroyed everything.

Sirens erupt in the distance, and I gasp. I crawl into the treeline and hide just in time for the cop cars to arrive. They slam on the brakes, seeing the “gift” I’ve left in the road. They hop from their vehicles, searching the area. I hold my breath as I press myself against my tree.

“This is where the trail ends,” one of the cops says. Another one stoops, scooping some of the vomit into an evidence bag. If they’ve been to the crime scene, they have my weapon and therefore my prints; this must be to see if I am intoxicated, not to identify me. “Fan out.”

Some of the cops sally toward me, and I look up into the tree I’m at the base of.

This is an awful idea.

I grab onto the lowest branch, wincing as I pull myself up. I repeat the process, muscles straining, struggling to remain hidden while also making it upwards. By the time I make it into the leaves, I’m trembling and covered in scratches, with even more branches poking at the sides of my face. I can’t see below me. That means they can’t see up here, either.

This is going to be my life.

I sniffle.

Turning myself in is the right thing to do. I know that. However, I’ll have to see the shame, the fear, and the pain on my mother’s face. I can’t do that.

With a heavy heart, I tilt my head back against the tree. A tear runs down my face.

A life on the run is worth more than a life facing scorn.

Or maybe I’m just a coward.