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FORTY-SIX

BOB MILLER

My phone vibrates. I mute the television and sit up in my hotel bed, staring at it. My heart rate immediately accelerates to a level I hadn’t anticipated. A light flashes on the side of it, indicating I have a message. I know what this text is supposed to be, what it’s supposed to say. Right now, I can live in limbo because I haven’t looked into the box yet to see if the cat is still breathing, but once I flip open that phone...

Alejandro’s questions race through my head: Is that really what you want? And you’re sure? The problem with Sarah is that there’s no stopping her, no changing her mind. Once you are in her crosshairs, you are as good as dead unless you intervene with drastic measures. I didn’t have a choice because she never gave me one. I just had the chance to strike first.

I flip the phone open and read the message on the screen.

It’s done.

I tap my fingers over the keys using T9 wording.

Send proof.

And then I wait. The seconds seem like hours, and I fear that I’ll pass out due to a buildup of anxiety from too much anticipation. Finally, an image slowly loads down the screen, row after row of pixels revealing the gory details of the act I put into motion. First, the pillows on our bed, then the hair, weaving its way down to the head. And then she appears. Sarah. Her lifeless face looking off to the side, blood smeared across it, still bright and fresh.

Tears begin to well in my eyes, pooling to a level the lids can no longer contain. I’m relieved she’s dead because the horror she was going to put me through would have been far more unbearable than what I’m feeling right now. What I’ve done doesn’t change the fact that I loved her. I’m staring at the image of my wife and the mother of my child dead—and I’m both elated and heartbroken. It’s like an old dog that’s gone senile and starts biting people out of confusion. Putting it down is the right thing to do, but still, it rips your heart out. Sarah needed to be put down.

I grab a tissue from the box on the nightstand and wipe the tears from my eyes. My phone vibrates again. Another message. I click it and another image loads. This time it’s not just her face, it’s her whole body, lying naked in our bed. Her limbs are twisted and splayed out. A large pool of blood has settled under and around her hips. My brow furrows. Why did she have to be naked for this? Then it hits me, and a rage starts to take over. I exit the message and call the only number in this phone.

It rings once before Alejandro answers with a “What?”

“Did you fuck my wife before you killed her?” I begin with a yell but quickly quiet down to an aggressively loud whisper, remembering that I have neighbors on either wall of my hotel room. I unmute the TV to cover the volume of my voice.

“I believe your direct quote was, ‘I don’t tell the mechanic how to fix my car.’ So don’t worry about it.”

“I am worried about it. That’s my wife and fucking her wasn’t a part of the deal.”

“You just wanted her dead, and that’s what she is. Plus, she’s not your wife anymore. She’s... not anything anymore.” The voice comes through the phone cold, toying.

I deeply sigh and rub my temple. “What about Summer? Where is she?” I ask, worried about what his answer could be.

“She’s staying at that Anne woman’s house. The one who works at the foundation.”

“I know who Anne is.” It’s not the ideal spot for Summer to be, since Anne will be resistant to me taking her without confirming with Sarah first, but there’s nothing I can do about that at this moment.

“Now what?” Alejandro asks.

“Clean up the scene and then leave town. Put as much distance between yourself and here as you possibly can. Go to California. I don’t care. But disappear.”

“And my money?”

“It’ll be wired to you first thing in the morning.”

“No, I want it tonight, and that’s not negotiable. Unless, of course, you want me to expand my list.”

“That wasn’t the deal, and you know I’m good for it, so it’ll be wired in the a.m. You don’t need to threaten me to ensure you get it.”

He’s silent for a moment, like he’s thinking it over.

“Fine.” Alejandro caves, for now. I know what he’s capable of, so I have no intention of not paying the man.

“Did Sarah say anything about Stacy Howard before you...” I trail off. I don’t need to say what we both already know.

“No.”

“Shit.” A dead end—literally. I need to find something that can remove the thorn of Stacy from my side... and maybe Carissa too. “I know she was planning something.”

“If she was, she isn’t anymore,” he says matter-of-factly.

Alejandro doesn’t get it. Even a half-baked plan that Sarah’s not around to finish could still blow up in my face. The only thing that’s changed is her not being able to interfere with me anymore.

“I still have to find Stacy. I can’t have that looming over me.”

“Well, you had me put that tracker on Sarah’s car. Just use that.”

“I’ve tried. It’s pointless. All she does is go to the foundation, the grocery store, and Summer’s school. It’s all routine and boring, nothing out of place.”

“Sounds like it’s nothing then.”

It’s possible he’s right. Sarah was amazing at contingency planning, but she probably never anticipated this. Maybe her plans will just fizzle out and die, but I can’t count on that.

“Just get out of there and make sure you remove the tracker from Sarah’s car before you go. And don’t contact me at this number again. It won’t work anyway.”

“And what if there’s an issue with the money?” Alejandro asks, a sense of anxiousness and annoyance in his voice.

“There won’t be. After I wire you the funds, I’ll reach out to you from another number once everything is clear.”

I press the red phone icon on the touch pad and end the call. There’s no sense in going back and forth anymore. He’s gotta get out of town, and he’s gotta do it fast. I pull up the picture of Sarah, taking her in one last time, knowing that once I delete this message, I’ll never see her again, not really.

After a few minutes of tricking my mind to ignore the blood and the lifeless face, I finally clear the call log, delete Alejandro’s number and all of our messages, and then snap the phone in half. Wrapping the two pieces in a towel, I stomp on it, smashing it into tiny fragments, most of which I flush down the toilet.

In the bathroom, I toss water on my face and find my reflection in the mirror. I stare at the man looking back. Tears stream down my face, and I begin to chuckle. “I did it. I finally did it.”

Someone bested the great Sarah Morgan. She thought she could keep this up and keep getting away with it. Playing with people like they were nothing, mere puppets attached to a string of lies and deceit and corruption, all clumped and tangled into a web of shit with Sarah smiling at the other end. Not anymore.

I look down at my watch and the reality of something as concrete as the time snaps me back to the plan at hand. As good as modern forensics are, the time-of-death proclamation still has a window in which it could have occurred, and we are within that window right now. So I need to be seen by as many people as possible, somewhere public. I change into something a little more formal and eye-catching before making my way down to the hotel bar.

“Good evening, sir,” the bartender says as I take a seat at the counter. “What can I get for you?”

He looks young, in his early thirties maybe, sporting a man-bun and a black leather butcher’s apron with tan straps.

“What do you recommend?” I ask.

I know exactly what I want, but I need to make conversation so he remembers me and, if questioned, can tell the police I was calm, conversational, and courteous.

“Depends, what are we thinking for base alcohol? Gin? Bourbon? Scotch? Vodka?”

“Bourbon.”

“Something sweet? Strong? Smoky? A mix?”

“Dealer’s choice, but not too sweet.”

“You got it,” he says with a small grin. He quickly drums his hands on the bar and turns away, off to mix up his concoction.

I turn and scan the hotel bar, which features a chandelier, moody lighting, oak-colored fixtures, and a dark-green-and-burgundy color palette. It’s meant to look elegant and refined, but a discerning eye will pick up that the chandelier is made of plastic, not crystal, and the oak color is merely a laminate over cheap particleboard. Many things in life can fool you into thinking they’re better than they actually are, if one doesn’t take the time to really look at things.

Unsurprisingly, the bar is fairly empty. It’s a weekday in a town that’s not known to draw tourists or businessmen. However, between the bartender, the few other heads in the restaurant, and the front desk staff that saw me walk in—not to mention the security camera in the lobby—my alibi will be airtight. I’m sure there’s a security camera somewhere in here too.

I pull out my personal phone and stare at the black screen, unable to turn it on. Letting out a deep sigh, I set it down on the bar. I know I need to delete some things on this phone as well, like the app I was using to track Sarah’s car, but my mind can’t stop thinking about that picture of her. I know I’ve done the right thing... for me. But it doesn’t make it any easier, and I wish my love for Sarah would have died along with her.

“Here you are,” the bartender says, placing before me a wooden board with a drink set on top and a glass dome enclosing it. Smoke dances around inside, masking the cocktail within. The bartender waits for me to give him my full attention. He wants to complete his show, so I’ll allow that indulgence. With a grand gesture, he removes the dome and invites me to waft in the smoke. It smells of rich applewood and hickory.

“I call it the Bull Run Mists,” he says with a grin.

I pick up the cocktail glass and bring it to my mouth, sipping it. The flavors explode, and my taste buds are taken on a sweet and smoky roller coaster.

“What do you think?” he asks, tossing a rag over his shoulder.

“It’s incredible.”

“Enjoy, and let me know if I can get you anything else.”

I smile, and I’m finally able to focus again, the alcohol coating the lining of my stomach, pulling me out of my daze. I pluck my phone from the counter and unlock it, going right to the tracking app I used to monitor Sarah. It’s the last thing remaining of my wife—her life, displayed as a web of routine in blue lines covering the screen. Work, school, store, home. Work, school, store, home. Repeat, repeat. It’s actually kind of pathetic when you see it like this.

I put my thumb on the bottom of the screen, ready to swipe up, close the app, and delete it—but then the map disappears, replaced by a spinning wheel with the word Loading underneath it. I stopped checking the app sometime yesterday, so I suppose it hadn’t refreshed. When it reloads, it’s no different than what was just on-screen, except for one line. I take my thumb and index finger and touch it, spreading them to zoom in on the route. It runs south from our lake house, past Greenwich and the golf course, into the middle of nowhere. I click on it and the details pop up—noting it was traveled to earlier this afternoon.

“No way,” I say out loud, unable to contain my surprise.

“Pretty out-of-this-world drink, huh.” The bartender looks over to me, smirking as he polishes a glass.

“Yeah, unbelievable,” I reply, thankful that he provided me an excuse for my outburst.

Where were you going, Sarah? I pull my wallet out of my pocket, ready to throw my card down on the bar and go investigate the location she visited. But then I remember, I still can’t leave yet. The time-of-death window. I check my watch. I need to wait at least an hour.

“Actually, as soon as I’m done with this one, I’ll have another,” I call down the bar.

“You got it.”