Chapter 17 - The Shadow of a Man: Everett’s Long Night in the Wilderness
The motel room in Union City felt like it was shrinking,
the walls closing in with every tick of the cheap plastic clock on the nightstand.
Everett sat on the floor,
surrounded by the remnants of a life he no longer recognized.
The five thousand dollars was down to its final hundreds,
and the "charity" I had given him was starting to feel like a slow-acting poison.
There was a knock on the door,
loud and insistent.
Everett scrambled to his feet,
his heart racing with a mixture of hope and terror.
He opened the door,
and for a moment,
his breath caught.
It was a delivery man,
holding a massive bouquet of roses.
But as the man stepped into the light,
Everett saw that the roses were dead.
They were withered,
brown,
and drooping,
their petals falling onto the threshold like dried blood.
"Everett Hart?"
the man asked,
thrusting the bouquet toward him.
Everett took them,
the brittle stems snapping in his grip.
"Who sent these?"
he asked,
his voice trembling.
The man didn't answer;
he just handed him a small,
black card and walked away.
Everett opened the card,
the elegant script of my handwriting cutting through his remaining sanity.
"Thanks for the memories,
Everett."
"The bill for these roses has been deducted from your remaining balance."
"Consider them a tribute to our marriage."
"Beautiful on the outside,"
"but rotten at the core."
Everett let out a sound that was half-laugh,
half-sob,
and threw the bouquet against the wall.
The dead petals exploded into a cloud of dust,
filling the room with the smell of decay.
He reached for the phone,
his fingers fumbling as he dialed a number he had memorized years ago.
It wasn't mine.
It was the number of a private investigator he had used to track his rivals.
"Pick up,"
he hissed,
pressing the phone to his ear.
"Pick up,
you bastard."
"Hello?"
a gruff voice answered.
"It's Everett."
"Everett Hart."
There was a long silence on the other end.
"I don't know an Everett Hart,"
the man said.
"I know a guy who used to be a CEO,
but he’s currently a ghost."
"Don't call this number again,
pal."
"My contracts are with Blackstone,
not with the guy who got kicked out of it."
The line went dead.
Everett stared at the receiver,
the silence of the room more deafening than any shout.
He realized then that I hadn't just taken his money and his status.
I had taken his history.
I had wiped the slate clean,
leaving him with nothing but the present—and the present was a cold,
dirty motel room in a city that didn't know his name.
He walked to the mirror,
looking at the stranger staring back at him.
The man in the mirror had dark circles under his eyes,
a three-day stubble,
and a look of utter defeat.
"I can still win,"
he whispered,
trying to convince himself.
"I know the secrets."
"I know where the bodies are buried."
But as he said it,
he remembered the look in my eyes at the lawyer’s office.
I didn't have any bodies buried.
I was the one who had dug the graves for everyone else.
He sat back down on the floor,
leaning his head against the bedframe,
and closed his eyes.
The city lights outside the window flickered,
a million miles away,
mocking him with their brightness.
He was a man who had thought he was the sun,
May you like
never realizing that he was just a moth,
and the flame had finally gone out.
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