Vicky made me better. I would have loved her forever if she could’ve loved me back.
I pull open the metal curtain and toss the marriage certificate into the fire. Watch it blacken and bend and disappear into ash.
The green journal. I hate that journal. I’m so tired of that journal. I leaf through it, the heat blazing on my face now. I read through it, all those days over the spring and summer and fall.
“Would you like to see me again?”
I rip out the page and toss it in the fire.
“Do you want me to be your whore, Professor Dobias?”
Rip it out and toss it in. Watch it burn.
Are you my addiction, Lauren? Am I barreling toward a cliff?
Burn.
I have become the man I despise.
Burn!
“I want us to get married.”
Burn, burn, fucking BURN—
Burn it all. Burn everything. Burn the cover. Burn every last scrap of its existence and scoop up the ashes and walk outside into the backyard, the shrubbery and trees blanketing me in privacy, in pitch-dark, and throw them into the wind like you discard the ashes of the dead.
Then go down to the basement, into the small room with the safe that came with the house, that was here when my father and mother bought this house thirty years ago.
I turn the combination to the right, 9, to the left, 19, to the right, 81, and pull open the safe. I almost need two hands to do it, heavy and creaky as the door is. The safe is built into the floor, one of these massive old things that looks more like a furnace than a storage unit for valuables. Drop a bomb on this house and the safe would still be intact. I’ve used it for tax documents and some vital records, but not anymore. Now it holds only two things.
One, stacks of money. A million dollars in cash. Money I withdrew this summer from the trust fund, filling up most of the safe.
And two, Vicky’s gun.
A Glock 23, she said, whatever that means. I don’t know very much about guns. But I know enough. I know they fire bullets. I know they kill people.
I put the gun against my temple and close my eyes.
Oh, the irony, right? The guy who runs Survivors of Suicide puts a bullet through his head?
It’s not too late. It’s not too late to turn back. It would save everyone a lot of trouble, a lot of pain. It might be best for everyone.
No.
I place the gun on top of the safe.
I’m not letting you off that easy, Lauren.
This isn’t over. That’s what I wrote in my last text message. And I meant it. This is not over.
71
Vicky
I’m at the alley garage below Christian’s condo at noon sharp, Monday. The sun is high, the air is cool. The temps today will reach the high forties, slight chance of rain in the early afternoon but not for long if at all. That’s good. Perfect weather for trick-or-treating. A perfect night for murder. Somebody must have said that in a movie.
But what’s not so good? The garage door isn’t opening. Christian’s been good at being timely, not wanting me standing outside in the alley, exposing myself to public view.
You picked a really shitty day to be late, Christian.
I know the pass code to get into his garage, but I don’t want to use it. I don’t want to startle him. He’s already seemed nervous. I’d prefer he come out and get me.
I look up at his condo, but I’m looking into the sun and can’t see any indication of what’s going on up there.
At five after twelve, a mild case of panic starts to set in. I need to see him. What’s he doing? Did he forget? But how could he forget?
He’s freaking out, that’s what’s happening, he’s freaking—
The door rises, startling me. I hike my bag over my shoulder and walk inside.
At the doorway into his condo stands Christian, wearing a dirty white T-shirt, hair fallen into his dark-ringed eyes.
“Happy Halloween,” I say, but he doesn’t smile. “What’s wrong? You look like hell.”
I follow him up the stairs. “Are you okay?” I ask.
He stops in the kitchen and looks at me. “I’m fine. Just nerves, I guess. I’ve never done something like this.”
Don’t go wussing out on me now, Christian. I need you, pal.
His eyes are glassy, almost like he’s been crying. He’s pale and sweaty and shaky.
Are you fucking kidding me? He’s going south on me now? We’re just hours away.
“Let me get you some water,” I say.
“Gloves,” he says, pointing at the kitchen counter.
A pair of rubber gloves, pulled out of their wrapping and waiting for me. Smart.
“I just spent . . . all weekend scrubbing you out of this condo,” he says.
I snap on the rubber gloves, grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, and hand it to him. “Drink,” I say. “Do you have the flu or something?”
“I just . . . threw up,” he admits. “Nervous stomach, I guess. I don’t have the flu.”
“Let me take your temperature. You have a thermometer?”
“Uh . . . I think so. An old one.”
I head into his bathroom. It reeks of vomit. The toilet lid is still up. What a freakin’ cream puff. But what did I expect, I guess, from a guy with a titanium toothbrush and matching nose-hair trimmer?
“I’ll clean up in here a little,” I call to him. “You should lie down. Get some rest.”
Get some rest and grow a pair of testicles.
When I come out of the bathroom, Christian’s lying on the couch, trying to relax but not succeeding. I drop my bag down and sit next to him, putting his feet on my lap.
“We’re only getting one chance at this,” I say.
“I know that. Don’t worry. You can count on me.”
“Did you practice with the Glock?”
He nods. “I practiced. It’s fine. It’s easy to handle.”
“Okay. What time are you going?”
He blows out. “Probably six-thirty or so, I’ll be there. I’ll try to blend in with the crowd. I’ll make it down to her house about five minutes ’til seven.”
“Good. A couple minutes before seven, ring the doorbell. If it’s after seven, she might not answer—”
“I know. I got it.”
“And right at seven, people might be sticking their heads out to shout ‘Happy Halloween’—”
“I know, Vicky. A couple minutes before seven. And what happens if other kids are there at that time? Other trick-or-treaters?”
“Not very likely,” I say. “But if so, wait for them to leave.”
“And you’re sure Conrad is out of town?”
“I’m sure. It will be Lauren answering the door. She’s there alone. Okay?” I shake his leg. “We okay? It’s a good plan, Christian.”
“Yeah,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself as well as me. “I’m fine.”
Jeez. Does he want his hands on that twenty-one million or not?
72
Simon
This isn’t over.
After Vicky leaves Monday morning, I try to find an outlet for my nervous energy. I clean the downstairs, spraying and wiping and vacuuming and dusting. When I’m done, I stretch my back, sore but calmed by the physical labor. The sunlight streaming into the family room helps, too. The middle of the night, dark and desolate, is never a good place for me. Daytime is much better.
And it’s nice to have that green journal behind me, every last page burned to ash and scattered into the wind in my backyard. It’s just about the last remaining connection to Lauren.