Forgive Me by Joshua Corin

soon.”
    He had so many questions. So, so many.
    But he’d accepted the baseball bat. He’d clenched it in his hands and—
    Ah, finally. Here was the speech—or at least the first few lines of it. Ross had never used a teleprompter before. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had read anything aloud. Had it been high school? If so, then Phillip must have been there in the room. How appropriate.
    He began, “ ‘Life. Liberty. Property. These are the essentials, and by monetizing the essentials, we are able to tailor them to each client and by doing so we promote individualism, both ours and theirs. We are the champions of the individual. Let no one tell you otherwise.’ ”
    Ross’s mind reeled at the rhetoric. He disagreed with just about every syllable. But he wouldn’t let his loathing show. The least he could offer in remembrance of his best friend was false sincerity.
    “ ‘But life and liberty can be risky investments. Only property carries with it the added value of tangibility. It can be seen, touched, owned. It—’ ”
    Ross stopped again, because the teleprompter stopped. It halted mid-scroll as if taking a breath. And when it resumed, it resumed in all caps.
    WE KNOW IT WAS YOU, the text read, AND WE WILL PUNISH.

Chapter 13
    Once again, Ross found himself in the hotel restroom. His speech—Phillip’s speech—had concluded only minutes ago, and rather than glad-hand the millionaires—who had risen to their feet and clapped loud and long their appreciation—rather than bask in their accolades, Ross had retreated to the nearest exit, and then retreated down the nearest hall, and then retreated into the nearest restroom, the very same restroom he had hid inside before the speech.
    But he was too flustered to appreciate the ironies. No, not flustered. Terrified. He stood with his back to the door and could feel his heart thudding so intensely that he could have sworn he heard it pounding dully against the wood. He was reminded of an Edgar Allan Poe story he had read in middle school. That he and Phillip had read. He was reminded of Mrs. Vazquez’s voice, ringing in his ears. These stories, like all American horror stories, were puritanical. They were warnings against sin. And the way Mrs. Vazquez enunciated the word
sin,
as if it were a hammer that could crack the eggshells of their souls. They were adolescents. Their minds were wound with sin.
    “Oh God,” said Ross. He could taste his own mortality. “Oh God.”
    How had they learned of his culpability? How long had they known? Had they been aware of his friendship with Phillip? Was this all a test that he had failed?
    Questions, questions, but more to the point: They were in the hotel. Someone had infiltrated the tech booth and manipulated the teleprompter. They were nearby and they had promised punishment and here he was, standing inside the single most obvious place for anyone to hide.
    Fool!
    He whipped the door open and rushed back into the corridor. No one was there waiting for him with a giant ax or a cocked revolver. But it was only a matter of time.
    The ballroom was on the third floor. There were two routes to escape: elevator and stairs. If he took the elevator, he’d first have to wait for one to arrive and then he’d be trapped inside one and then, once the doors opened at his destination, someone could be waiting for him with a giant ax or a cocked revolver and he’d be trapped again. If he took the stairs, he’d be visible the entire time to anyone peeking down or up the stairwell. On the other hand, he’d also be visible to any passing guests or hotel employees and whoever was out to get him would want to avoid witnesses.
    He took the stairs. Three at a time. Bounding down them like a toad. One hand on the railing as he leapt and leapt and leapt. The third floor above him, now the second floor above him, now the first floor coming up, one more flight of wide, carpeted stairs and he’d be in the lobby and then