Sebastian kept his head bowed and his hands in his jacket pockets. He took in a deep breath, the night air cold by California standards—in the low forties.

“My mother believed in the power of prayer. Believed that you could talk not only to God but to your loved ones. But she told me if you wanted to say something really important—like ask for forgiveness—then you had to do it at that person’s grave site.”

Sebastian felt silly, a grown-ass man talking to himself. The dead couldn’t hear or feel, because they were dead. But that didn’t prevent people from talking out loud, believing their loved one’s soul or spirit was in hearing distance, looming somewhere close by, watching and listening.

Sebastian had been raised in—or, he would argue, indoctrinated into—Catholicism by his Bible-thumping mother. And while he hadn’t stepped inside a church for decades, he supposed he still clung to the spiritual concept of a soul. Or maybe, deep down, he was terrified not to believe it. His adult self suddenly felt a lot like the little boy who believed the night-light his mother placed in his room kept the monsters under the bed and locked inside the closet.

“When I got out of prison, I went to her grave and apologized to her. Not for going to jail—that wasn’t my fault, as you well know—but because I wasn’t there for her when she got sick. Frank was, and while I’m sure she appreciated that—God knows I did—still, it wasn’t me. And that bothered me for a long, long time. But it felt good to go visit her and get it off my chest. Then, when I got sober, I went to see her again, and this time I asked for her forgiveness for everything I put her through—and I put her through a lot. Things I never told you about.”

Sebastian snorted. The sounds of the highway traffic filled his ears, and in the far, far distance he could see a faint orange glow, like that from an active volcano—the wildfires tearing their way through Northern California. He thought he could smell smoke, too, but surely he was imagining it.

“I don’t know if I believe in heaven, in that whole ‘You’re looking down on me’ thing, watching my every move. The nuns and priests drilled that into me at school and at church, and I found the whole thing creepy, to say the least. Anyway, if it is true, then you know what’s been going on. My mother, too. You both know why I’m here. Still, I’ve got to say it out loud. That’s what they teach at AA—not to carry shit but to let it out. We’re as sick as our secrets.”

Sebastian took another deep breath. This time he did smell smoke.

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill your son,” Sebastian said. “I don’t expect you to understand or to forgive me, although I’d be lying if some part of me didn’t want that, because otherwise why would I be here? It’s been weighing on me, what I’m going to do—so much so that I haven’t been able to sleep. But I’m still going to do it. I have to do it, for reasons you understand, or don’t. Like they say in AA, I can’t control people, places, or things. Souls, I’m guessing, fall into that category. I will say that I’m sorry. That I wish there was another way.