Eighteen
I SIT IN THE CONFESSIONAL quietly. We’re told to listen as much as possible, to speak only when we feel the penitent needs prompting.
I’m having a hard time doing that.
I killed a man.
My worst fear. Hearing a crime confessed. Hearing a murder confessed.
And my hands are tied.
I have the sudden urge to flee, to run out of the confessional and hear no more. To not take on the burden of knowing that someone took a human life and having to keep that knowledge to myself.
Having to keep that knowledge from the woman I love.
Who happens to be the Chief of Police.
“Maybe that’s not exactly right,” she continues, her voice weak.
“What do you mean?” I say.
She sighs heavily. “I didn’t kill him myself. But I was standing there. I stood there, and I couldn’t stop it.”
“Did you wa
