Counting Steps
“The fog hung thick tonight—like a wet blanket suffocating everything it touched. The ocean waves in the distance sounded like distant whispers, too far away to matter. My boots hit the worn-down wooden boardwalk with a dull thud, the rhythm steady as my steps. I counted each one silently, a habit I’d never been able to shake. I needed the counting, especially now, especially with what was coming. It’s a personal thing. It calms me.
Twenty-seven steps.
That’s all it took to reach the alley behind Reed’s Bar. I stopped at the entrance, letting the cigarette between my lips burn down to a nub before flicking it into the gutter. I wasn’t sure why I’d come here tonight. I wasn’t sure of much anymore.
They had claimed I was the one who’d started the fire–that I was the reason the pier was gone, and with it, the only piece of this town that ever mattered. Everyone needed something to blame, something to point their fingers at, and I was the easiest target.
I finished my cigarette and tossed the butt. I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The place smelled of stale beer and desperation. Tommy was hunched over the bar, a bottle of whiskey in front of him, and the knife I knew he kept under his pillow now resting loosely in his hand. His eyes flicked to me as I entered, then back to the bottle.
‘You look like shit,’ he muttered, not bothering to turn around. I slid onto the stool beside him, counting the scuff marks on the wood beneath my elbows.
‘I need information,’ I said.
Tommy let out a humorless laugh, swirling the whiskey in his glass. ‘You always need something, don’t you? Trouble’s already at your door, and you want to invite it in for a drink.’
‘I didn’t start the fire.’
He gestured around the room. ‘Tell that to the rest of the town,’ he said, taking a long pull from the bottle. ‘They don’t care about the truth. They want a scapegoat, and you’re it.’
I clenched my jaw, staring at the peeling paint on the wall behind the bar. ‘I’m not going down for this, Tommy. I need to know who did it.’
He set the bottle down with a heavy thud, finally looking at me. His eyes were bloodshot, sleepless. ‘You really think the truth is going to save you? You think anyone gives a damn?’
‘I give a damn.’
‘That’s your problem,’ he said. ‘You always cared too much. This town doesn’t care about you. Hell, I’m not sure I care anymore.’
I looked at him then, really looked at him. The lines on his face were deeper than I remembered, the weight of his debts dragging him down like anchors. He owed more money than he could ever pay back, and every day, Briggs’ men tightened the noose just a little bit more. He wanted to run. He’d been talking about it for weeks, but there was no running from Jon Briggs. Not in this town.
‘You could leave,’ I said. ‘We both could.’
He laughed again, bitter this time. ‘You think I’m just gonna walk out of here? Briggs owns me. I can’t even take a piss without him knowing about it. No, I’m stuck here. Same as you.’
‘Then we fight.’
His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw something there—something like hope. But it was gone as quickly as it came. He shook his head, turning back to the bottle. ‘You go ahead and fight, if that’s what you want. But I’m not in the mood to get killed just because you can’t walk away.’
‘I can’t walk away from this, Tommy. I’ve got to clear my name.’
He didn’t answer, just raised the bottle to his lips again.
I stood up, the weight of the conversation settling in my chest. ‘I’ll find out who did it, with or without your help.’
‘Good luck with that,’ he muttered.
I turned and left the bar, stepping back into the fog. The damp air clung to my skin, chilling me to the bone. I knew I was running out of time. The town already saw me as guilty, and every day that passed, it became harder to prove otherwise.
I walked the streets, counting the steps as I went, my mind racing. Twenty-seven. Fifty-four. Seventy-nine. I needed a lead, something to point me in the right direction. The fire had started on the far end of the pier, late at night when no one should’ve been there. Except someone was. Someone who wanted to see it burn.
I reached the old cannery, the last place anyone in this town would be after dark. It was abandoned now, a relic of better days. I slipped inside, the sound of my boots echoing through the empty space. The smell of saltwater and rust filled the air, and I made my way to the back, where I knew someone would be waiting.
‘Tommy sent you?’ Jon Briggs’ voice came from the shadows, low and dangerous.
I stepped forward, my hand brushing the cold steel of the knife I kept on me. ‘Tommy doesn’t know I’m here.’
Briggs emerged from the darkness, his eyes cold and calculating. ‘Then why are you here?’
‘I need to know who started the fire.’
Briggs smiled, a slow, menacing smile that sent a chill down my spine. ‘You did. Haven’t you heard?’
I ignored his accusation.
‘I think you know more than you’re letting on.’
He took a step closer, his breath warm against my face. ‘And what makes you think I’d tell you anything?’
‘Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure everyone knows what you’ve been doing in this town. I’ll burn it all down if I have to.’
Briggs laughed, a cruel, sharp sound. ‘You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But guts won’t save you.’
I held his gaze, not backing down. ‘I don’t need saving.’
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. ‘Alright, I’ll give you a name. But it won’t be what you want to hear.’
I waited, my heart pounding in my chest.
‘It was Tommy.’
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I shook my head, refusing to believe it. ‘That’s not possible.’
Briggs shrugged. ‘Believe what you want. But your friend’s the one who started the fire. He owed me more than he could pay back. I gave him a choice—burn the pier or lose more than just his business.’
I staggered back, the weight of the betrayal crashing down on me. ‘You’re lying.’
Briggs smiled again, that same cold, cruel smile. ‘Go ask him yourself.’
I didn’t wait for more. I turned and ran, my mind racing, the steps flying by under my feet. Twenty-seven. Fifty-four. Seventy-nine. By the time I reached the bar, I was out of breath, the fog thicker now, choking the air from my lungs.
I burst through the door, and there was Tommy, sitting in the same spot, the bottle of whiskey still in his hand.
‘You son of a bitch,’ I growled, my hands shaking as I grabbed him by the collar.
He didn’t resist, didn’t even look surprised. ‘I didn’t have a choice.’
‘You had a choice!’ I yelled, shoving him back against the bar. ‘You could’ve told me! We could’ve figured it out together!’
He shook his head, his eyes hollow. ‘There’s no figuring it out, not with Briggs. I did what I had to do.’
‘And now I’m going to jail for it.’
He looked down at the floor, the weight of his actions finally sinking in. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry doesn’t fix it.’
I released him, stepping back. The room felt colder now, the fog creeping in through the cracks in the walls.
‘You should’ve trusted me,’ I said quietly, turning toward the door. ‘We could’ve gotten out of this.’
He didn’t answer.
I left without another word, the sound of my boots echoing through the empty streets as I walked away. Twenty-seven. Fifty-four. Seventy-nine. Back seventy-nine. Back fifty-four. But no matter how far I walked, I knew I’d never outrun the truth. Back at home now, I walked inside. Five steps across my living room, two into my bedroom before I flopped down on my bed. I counted eighty-seven sheep and then I lost count and fell asleep. That’s where you found me. What’s this all about?” I asked.
The constable twisted the ends of his mustache, the wax he used serving to twist the ends into perfect points. “So, you mean to tell me,” he said, “that not only did you not start the fire, but despite everyone seeing you in an argument with Tommy this evening, you also didn’t murder him in cold blood two hours later and you didn’t kill Jon Briggs before even confronting Tommy Strum over at Reed’s Tavern in front of dozens of witnesses?”
My blood rushed out of my head, through my abdomen, down through my torso to the seat of my pants and then back again. I felt like I might shit myself, or vomit, or both. “M–M–Murder?” I stammered. “Tommy’s dead? Jon Briggs is dead? What the hell is happening here right now?”
Constable Jenkins rose from his chair. “What’s happening right now, sir, is that you’re being placed under arrest not only for the fire at the docks this week, but for the murders of Jon Briggs and Tommy Strum.”
That was 6 months ago. I told my story in court– to a jury of people who showed up angry and left even angrier. They are deliberating now, or so my lawyer tells me.
I don’t have to even hear the verdict. I already know it. I am already sure of the noose soon to be dropped over my head and around my neck, the executioner’s words about God and his so-called “mercy” visiting with my soul. I can already feel the trap door dropping from beneath my feet as a few disinterested people look on. I can hear my own neck snap, the burn of the tightening rope ripping the skin on my neck, my head and eyes feeling as if they are about to pop, the struggle in vain to gasp for air—to breathe. The darkness beginning to close in around me. The end.
I have no doubt that’s what comes next. This was over before it began. And no one will even care. I am nobody. And I always will be. My soul shrugs in resignation. What’s there to do? My fate was sealed before the dock burned– before any of this. The day I came to town and assumed that every smiling face bore a friend.