21 Tales Read Online Free PDF Page B

service revolver out and pointed at me. I hadn’t realized it at the time but some of Barb’s blood had sprayed on me. I guess I had felt the stickiness but thought it was sweat.
    The cop’s voice cracked as he ordered me out of the car, and then to put my hands behind my head. When I did, my hands were jerked behind my back and handcuffs slapped on.
    The next few hours are pretty much a blur. I know they obtained a search warrant and found the gloves and hammer. I remember sitting in an interrogation room when a detective dumped the stuff in the middle of the table, all of it in evidence bags. I remember him and another cop yelling at me, trying to get me to tell them who I had killed. I didn’t say a word, but they found out soon enough. They had called Susie and she must’ve realized I had taken Barb’s key. Anyway, before the night was over they found Barb’s body.
    Susie divorced me before the trial. When the trial came, I ignored my lawyer’s advice and pled guilty. I didn’t see much point in doing anything else. After all, they caught me red-handed, or, to be more precise, red-faced.
    That was fourteen years ago. I have eight minutes to finish this up before they take me out of my cell and prepare me to die by lethal injection.  The warden is now standing to my left, frowning as he tries to look over my shoulder to read what I’m writing.
    In an hour and eighteen minutes I’ll be dead. The most famous prisoner to be executed by the State of California. Everything I told Barb about needing to reclaim my fortune turned out to be true. Thanks to my notoriety, my books went from gathering dust in my closet to being published, with three of them ending up on the NY Times bestseller’s list. After that I became a hot commodity, signing whatever book deals I wanted. The last fourteen years I’ve worked nonstop, writing thirty-seven books. The last one I finished only a couple of hours ago, giving me only that much time to squeeze in my one nonfiction piece. Not really a confession, more an explanation. While I’ve hinted in some of my novels about what happened with Barb, I’ve never really given a full explanation before.
    Early on, after my first six books started making money, Barb’s family sued me for damages. The jury awarded the family five million dollars, probably figuring that was more than I was ever going to make. By the time my twenty-fifth book hit the bestseller’s list I had made ten times that, but it was too late then for their lawyer to go back and change the jury award.
    Even though Susie remarried, I’ve tried transferring my money to her, but she won’t take it. I can’t really blame her. It would’ve been nice, though, if she could’ve talked to me one last time, or at least acknowledged one of my letters, but I understand why she hasn’t.
    Only four minutes left. The warden’s now tapping his foot, his face folded into a scowl as he stares at his watch. Damn, I just didn’t leave myself enough time to do this properly. My one nonfiction piece and it’s going to be a fucking hack job.
    Two weeks ago the Governor of California offered to commute my sentence to life if I’d publicly state remorse for murdering Barb. I turned him down, not out of principle, but for the simple reason that the well has run dry. I’m out of ideas for novels. To be honest, the last four were derivative of earlier works. Critics noticed and commented on that. Anyway, I could tell the Governor was disappointed by my refusal. You can take a lot of flack executing a bestselling author.
    Out of time. The warden’s indicating for me to wrap things up. I raise my index finger pleading for one more minute. He doesn’t like it, but he nods, and then asks me if it was all worth it.
    He’s a decent man. For his sake I try to keep the smile off my face as I tell him it wasn’t. But come on, thirty-nine books on the bestseller’s list? Twelve of them made into movies?
    Was it worth it?
    Losing Susie, my