GARTH RATTLED IN HIS SEAT as the campaign bus rolled over another snow-covered pothole on Highway 2. The other workers were busy on their phones, their faces tinged blue from the glow. He flipped on his laptop and navigated to the CBC, Global, and CTV websites. Forrestal was the top story of the day. A headline blared: “Business Icon Found Dead in Hotel.” There was a picture of the smiling businessman taken from his company’s website, followed by a short article. Police confirmed foul play. They were investigating and seeking the public’s help to solve the crime. A contact number concluded the piece.
He felt a stupid tear emerge from his right eye, but it was not enough to stop him from opening another browser tab, selecting his offshore bank website, typing in a twenty-six-digit code, and transferring five thousand U.S. dollars to a numbered account in the Cayman Islands, the same one he had sent five thousand to a few weeks earlier. He then sent ten thousand to a new account and forwarded a confirmation message to Birch’s email address, as agreed.
Larch had kept his promise. Garth now had his revenge, his ultimate victory, over the man whose selfish actions had traumatized him for decades. But something was wrong. When playing this scene in his mind, over those many years, Garth thought in the end he might, for some obscure reason, feel sad. He didn’t. At first he felt the relief that he expected. But it soon faded, replaced by something else, something surprising, something that had been lurking under the surface and only now came into view. Something he hadn’t felt since he was a child.
He was scared.