daughter had spoken, her rebuke still loud and clear.
Get out. She would not want you here
.
And he’d left.
He stared again at the gun, his finger on the trigger. He steeled himself, grabbed a breath, and then nestled the barrel to his temple. He was left-handed, like nearly every Sagan. His uncle, a former professional baseball player, told him as a child that if he could learn to hurl a curveball he’d make a fortune in the major leagues. Left-handers were rare. But he’d failed at sports, too.
He felt the metal on his skin. Hard. Unbending.
Like Abiram.
And life.
He closed his eyes and tightened his finger on the trigger, imagining how his obituary would start.
Tuesday, March 5th, former investigative journalist Tom Sagan took his own life at his parents’ home in Mount Dora, Florida
.
A little more pressure on the trigger and—
Rap. Rap. Rap.
He opened his eyes.
A man stood outside the front window, close enough to the panes for Tom to see the face—older than himself, clean-cut, distinguished—and the right hand.
Which held a photograph pressed to the glass.
He focused on the image of a young woman, bound and gagged, lying down, arms and feet extended as if tied.
He knew the face.
His daughter.
Alle.
Get out. She would not want you here
.
And he’d left.
He stared again at the gun, his finger on the trigger. He steeled himself, grabbed a breath, and then nestled the barrel to his temple. He was left-handed, like nearly every Sagan. His uncle, a former professional baseball player, told him as a child that if he could learn to hurl a curveball he’d make a fortune in the major leagues. Left-handers were rare. But he’d failed at sports, too.
He felt the metal on his skin. Hard. Unbending.
Like Abiram.
And life.
He closed his eyes and tightened his finger on the trigger, imagining how his obituary would start.
Tuesday, March 5th, former investigative journalist Tom Sagan took his own life at his parents’ home in Mount Dora, Florida
.
A little more pressure on the trigger and—
Rap. Rap. Rap.
He opened his eyes.
A man stood outside the front window, close enough to the panes for Tom to see the face—older than himself, clean-cut, distinguished—and the right hand.
Which held a photograph pressed to the glass.
He focused on the image of a young woman, bound and gagged, lying down, arms and feet extended as if tied.
He knew the face.
His daughter.
Alle.
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