The dead leaves crunch beneath my boots as they disintegrate into the frost covered dirt. The winter air is icy-cold and the tips of my fingers sting even though they’re so deeply buried in my pockets. The frigid Minnesota climate is a far cry from what I’m used to, way out here in the middle of nowhere. I long for the sweet humidity of home, when we were safe. Before I fucked everything up, when things were simple. I love my wife, with all my heart; but even she must have understood on some level that I just needed to blow off steam once and a while. I never brought any of it home to her, not even once. She’s my rock. I thought that as long as we were still together that life could go on like it was, but on a winter’s day like this? I can’t help but wish I’d just up and ran, left her here in our new world with the neighbors and the kids and the fucking bookclub; without me. I could have left, without a word. But I didn’t. I couldn't. She had to hear it from me first, not some asshole cop or a vulturous reporter or on the news. No. She deserves better than that.

Our children were at school when I told her about those girls they found buried in the hills, about why we really had to move across the country. She didn’t believe me at first, she couldn't; but when she saw in my eyes that I was telling the truth, that it wasn't just some cruel joke, she wouldn't stop crying. I couldn’t bring myself to comfort her, she didn’t want me to anyway; not anymore.

So, I left. I left her there, to grieve for me; just the same as if I'd simply abandoned her entirely. I walked for miles, all the way to the nearest town; where I found myself staring up at a church steeple. I sat alone, sequestered on the far end of the shiny wooden pew closest to Christ nailed to his crimson-streaked cross. My eyes met his and I saw them as unforgiving. I expected nothing less.

Wandering back into the street, now growing dark and mostly deserted, I began to walk again to nowhere in particular; into the wilderness. The dusk light shone through the treetops in slivers of golden orange landing on the pale white frost of the forest floor. A large rock amidst a small clearing serves as a comforting place to rest. I shiver, and long; long for L.A. The beach, the sun. The girls.

The wind’s waning howl is drowned out by police sirens wailing, growing louder and closer. My only regret was bringing her into this. As sweet and innocent as a lamb, now forever ruined by my sick legacy. I hope she believed me when I told her how sorry I was. I really meant it.

The gun feels cold against my head.