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EIGHTEEN

BOB MILLER

I check my phone again to see if Brad’s texted me back: still nothing. I told him last night he needed to find everything he could on Stacy Howard. He said he’d have something to me this morning—but it’s almost noon now and it’s been nothing but radio silence.

After sleeping on it, I realized Sarah was right. She might be trying to lead me in another direction, throw me off her scent, but she did have a point. I don’t know anything about Stacy Howard—not a single detail. Well, actually, I know two things.

One, she’s a thief. The morning after she and I had sex, I woke up to find she was already gone—along with my Rolex and all the cash in my wallet.

And two, she’s an extortionist. Less than a week after Stacy and I hooked up, I received a text from her demanding that I pay her or else she’d tell my wife about us. She got my number from the business card she took from my wallet. I was going to pay her at first, just to keep her quiet, but by the next day, Sarah already knew, thanks to some jackoff at my firm. So, I just ignored Stacy’s text as well as her follow-up attempts to extort money from me. Her telling her roommate we were seeing each other is a total lie. I never saw her again after that night, and that’s why I need to find out who she is.

“Bob,” Anne snaps. “How do you vote?”

I look to Sarah, seated at the opposite head of the conference table for this quarter’s Morgan Foundation board meeting. Her thumb is up, so I put mine down. I don’t even know what I just voted on. Anne is on her left with her thumb also pointed up. She’s the facilitator, so she also gets a vote, which basically means Sarah gets two votes. I used to go along with Sarah, guaranteeing her three out of seven, but not anymore.

“Six in favor and one opposed in the vote for donating premium feminine hygiene supplies to women’s prisons across the commonwealth of Virginia. The vote passes,” Anne announces.

Great. Now I look like a douche in front of the other board members, who are all highly valued members of surrounding communities—the warden of a prison, the CEO of an accounting firm, the owner of a PR agency, and another man that owns a lobbying firm based in DC. The warden gives me a peculiar look. He’s older with a hardened face and a booming voice, no matter at what volume he speaks. I lower my head and rub my brow, so he’ll think I’m ill rather than inattentive and unfocused.

“You all right, Bob?” the warden asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just have a migraine.” I pour myself a glass of water from the pitcher set in front of me and chug it while peering over the rim at Sarah, who sits prim and proper, like everything is just peachy fucking keen. With our marriage falling apart and the reopening of the Kelly Summers case, I don’t know how she can appear so calm and demure. I set the glass down and refill it once more.

Sarah pays me no mind, not even glancing in my direction. I wish I knew what she was thinking, what thoughts were coursing through that brilliant, diabolical mind of hers. I’d love to rip open her skull and poke and prod at her brain, see what makes it tick, see where she hides her darkest thoughts and deepest secrets. Even if I could hear her thoughts, I don’t think I’d be able to hear all of them. Sarah can cube parts of who she really is, as well as the horrible things she’s done, like sides of a die. Only one side can be face up, and that’s just the one she wants to show you. Right now, she’s a respected business owner, a board member, a strong pillar of the community, an activist, a loving mother, a caring friend, and a wonderful leader. Or at least that’s what these other five bozos think because that’s what she wants them to think. Most psychopaths can compartmentalize, and that’s exactly what Sarah is. It’s why she was able to stab Kelly thirty-seven times and then show up for work the next day like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She and I are alike in that sense.

Anne clicks around on her laptop and says, “That brings us to an update on Case Fifty, Alejandro Perez. First, congratulations to Bob for a successful nomination.”

There’s a quiet round of applause. Even Sarah claps, and this time she makes eye contact with me, delivering a pleased smile. It’s all for show, I’m sure. I pull my lips in and nod.

“Alejandro has settled into his apartment,” Anne reads out loud from her computer screen. “He’s passed his first drug test, and he also saved Sarah here from getting ambushed by reporters yesterday.”

Sarah’s smile tightens. The board members clap again, offering sympathetic looks.

“What about work?” the warden asks. “Any luck on finding a job?” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his barrel-sized chest.

“He’s secured a temp job,” Sarah says. “But when it finishes, he’ll continue with his job hunt. Alejandro did express he was already having a difficult time finding permanent work prior to being accepted to the Morgan Foundation program, due to his felon status.”

“I’d like to address that,” Kendall says, lifting her hand. She’s an elegant, wispy woman, always dressed to the nines, and she owns a renowned public relations firm. It’s all about image for her, but she’s great at what she does—which is just spinning bullshit and presenting it as gold.

Sarah nods, giving her the go-ahead to continue.

“We have several upcoming national media pieces that will push to reclassify the term felon as a derogatory label and educate the public that people who were previously incarcerated are actually members of an underrepresented community. This narrative should invigorate the younger generation to rally around this group, like they’ve done for so many others. And we think the added pressure put on businesses and corporations should generate a positive impact on employment outcomes for this community,” Kendall explains.

The warden cocks his head. “What are you gonna call them then?”

“My team is brainstorming a list of new labels that we feel are positive and more politically correct, and I should have it ready to present at the next board meeting.”

“If we throw an -ist or a -phobe behind anyone that doesn’t accept or use the new label, we could have ourselves a movement,” Corey says, raising his perfectly plucked brows. He’s a DC lobbyist, sporting overstyled hair that looks like it belongs on a Ken doll. If you want something done in DC, you go to Corey. I swear he’s got dirt on everyone in that city.

“That’s exactly our plan.” Kendall grins.

“Good, I look forward to seeing what your team comes up with.” Sarah nods. She looks to Corey. “Any updates on your end?”

“Yes, I’m close to pushing through a bill on the Senate floor that will offer additional incentives to employers that hire felo... I mean, people with a felon status,” he says.

Sarah steeples her fingers in front of her face. “Is that on top of the Work Opportunity Tax Credit that’s already in place?”

“That’s right.” He nods. “If this goes through, it will double the WOTC and give employers access to even lower healthcare premiums for all employees.”

“How confident are you that it’ll pass?” Sarah asks.

Corey delivers a devilish smile. “Very.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she says with a pleased look.

Nods and smiles all around as Anne takes notes and moves on to the next item on the agenda. My phone vibrates against the table, causing a small disturbance. Sarah’s eyes tighten, but she doesn’t say anything. I silence it, but not before I glance at the text Brad sent. I almost let out a sigh of relief.

Background check on Stacy Howard came back. She was charged with extortion for blackmailing a sitting congressman a few years ago but got a slap on the wrist for it.

I text back.

Did she have an affair with the congressman and threaten to tell his wife?

He replies right away.

Umm. Not sure. It’s a sealed record, but I’ll see if I can find a way around it.

It looks like I wasn’t Stacy’s first rodeo. Before I can reply, Brad texts again.

There was something else that might be a red flag.

What!?!?!

I chew on my lower lip, waiting for him to message me back. Finally, it lands on my screen, and I can feel my face flush. The thick vein in my forehead starts to throb as I read it.

Stacy’s name came up on the Morgan Foundation’s external payroll list. Still trying to figure out what exactly she was paid for as it’s listed as “contractor.” More to come.

My hands ball into tight fists, and I slowly lift my head, scowling at my wife seated at the other end of the table. I knew it. She’s plotting against me. Probably has been since the moment she found out I had an affair.

Before I can think it through, I grab the ballpoint pen lying beside my phone and launch myself at her. No one has time to react, and in an instant, I’m on top of Sarah, sending her reeling backward in her chair. We crash to the floor, her little blond head cracking against it, instantly putting her in a daze. Gasps and screams fill the room. With the pen clenched in my hand, I raise it above my head and thrust it into her eye socket. Blood spurts out of the wound, spraying red onto my white button-up. I plunge the ballpoint into her face over and over again until she’s completely unrecognizable, just a mangled mess of skin, blood, cartilage, and exposed bone. I can’t help but laugh manically. Ding dong, the bitch is dead.

“Bob,” Sarah says with an ounce of concern in her voice. I shake away the fantasy, finding myself still seated in the conference room right across from her. Her head is slanted to the side, and her brows are pulled together. The ballpoint pen was clenched so tightly in my hand, it snapped in half, causing red ink to spill out from my closed fist and drip onto the conference table. The other board members are looking at me the same way she is.

“How do you vote?” she asks, relaxing her face to a neutral position. Her hand is raised out in front of her with a thumb up.

I release the pen from my grasp and hold out my red-stained fist, rotating it slowly into a thumbs-down. Sarah doesn’t know it yet, but she’s met her match.