DEBBIE
Jesse is out cold.
The gun is in my gloved hand, but I can't just shoot him, as much as I would enjoy that.
Killing Jesse will be therapeutic for me in a way that years of therapy could never be.
But I have to be smart about this. I have gone to a lot of trouble to frame Jesse for multiple murders, and I can't do anything that will lead the police to suspect that a third party was involved in what happened here today.
That means Jesse needs to shoot himself with his own hand.
The coroner will know the difference between somebody shot from several feet away and a suicide. Plus, there needs to be gunshot residue on Jesse's right hand. The only way that can happen is if he is holding the gun.
I have to get up close and personal with him, which is the last thing I want to do. I sit down beside him on the sofa, and I can smell that horrible cologne. The last time I was this close to him, he was on top of me.
But he can't hurt me anymore. He's unconscious. And very soon, he's going to be dead.
He can't hurt you.
I repeat those words to myself over and over as I wrap his fingers around the handle of the gun. I point the barrel at his throat, aimed in the direction of his brains. One bullet should do it. One bullet, and this will all be over.
I place Jesse's index finger on the trigger. I get ready to pull.
"Debbie!"
I freeze, my hand on Jesse's, at the sound of the voice yelling my name. It takes me a second to realize that the voice belongs to my husband. For some reason, Cooper is out there, calling my name.
Oh my God, what is he doing here?
He must have seen this location in my history from when I visited Harley earlier in the week, even though I was careful to turn off my phone for this particular excursion.
I didn't even realize he knew where to look for that.
He's probably been driving around everywhere I've been in the last week, searching for me.
"Debbie!"
Why did he come here? Why couldn't he have just waited at home until I was done with everything I had to do?
"Debbie! Debbie, I love you! Please!"
His words tug at me. I look down at the man lying unconscious on the sofa.
I have spent the last eight months thinking about how he ruined my life.
I had thought I was over it, but when I saw him, my hate and anxiety and shame over what happened to me grew with each passing day until I couldn't bear it any longer.
But that's unfair. My life isn't ruined. My life is good in many ways. Yes, I didn't end up with the career that I'd hoped to have. But I have two wonderful daughters. And I have a husband who loves me enough to drive around the South Shore in the middle of the night searching for me.
I have a lot.
But I can't just abandon my entire plan. Two people are dead. And if I walk away right now, I'm going to take the blame for everything. I don't have a choice anymore.
I put my right index finger over Jesse's, and I pull the trigger.