by G. , Whitney
“She died a tragic death and she’ll never be found.”
He lets out a sigh and leans back in his seat, shaking his head. “Rio said that your wife had a double life in that strip club.”
“He’s just upset that he didn’t get invited to the wedding.”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“How well do you really know your wife, then?” He narrows his eye at me. “Because this is a perfect example of why I’m not supposed to tell you shit about who and what is behind the jobs we do. There’s always a risk of someone getting too close.”
“I’m not that close to her. I’m just close enough.”
“For your sake, I’m going to hope that’s true,” he said. “I know the past few years have held a few detours on things for us, but now is not the time to lose focus, Michael. We have a plan and we need to stick to it, until it’s one hundred percent complete.”
“How much do I owe you for this lecture? Do you accept cash or credit?”
He rolls his eyes, but he slowly backs down. “Now that I think about it, I’m kind of upset that I didn’t get an invitation to your wedding.”
“Would you have shown up?”
“I would’ve tasted the cake.”
I smile. “I thought it would be best if she doesn’t know about you.”
“Doesn’t or didn’t? Is she currently in past or present tense?”
I sigh and fold my newspaper. “Give me the next job and go get on someone else’s nerves.”
“There aren’t any for the next few weeks, since a certain someone completed them all early,” he says. “You can return to doing the ones on your personal list for a while. I’ll be doing some accounting for a few businesses that owe us some money.”
“Noted.”
“For what it’s worth,” he says, standing to his feet and placing a newspaper clipping of me and Meredith’s wedding photo onto the table. “I’ve never seen you happier than when you were stringing her along. By the way, there’s blood on your hands.”
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Both.”
I look down and see a dried streak of blood on the inner lining of my glove’s left finger. A small bit of Rio.
“Thank you.”
He nods and starts to walk away, but then he comes right back.
“In the off chance that you’re considering being with your wife for the long term and telling her everything…” he says, “Like, if you honestly think there’s a chance that she’ll be able to accept you for you once you bare your soul, I want to give you some advice.”
I don’t even pretend to deny his suspicions anymore.
“Don’t.” He glares at me. “You know it’s pointless and it’ll never last. You have far better things to do—An “all or nothing” promise that you owe yourself, and me. If you ever suspected me of doing what I’m suspecting you of doing, when it comes to a target, I would expect you to tell me the same goddamn thing.”
“Even if you love her?”
“Especially if you love her.” He steps back. “You can’t have her forever, and you know it. Get rid of her now, Michael. For real this time.”
Meredith
Now
I’m standing downstairs in the mansion’s basement. One of two places in this house where Michael’s cell phone gets reception. (The other is the living room, and I won’t dare risk doing this anywhere near Michael.)
It’s now or never. This man is going to kill me, and he’s left me in the dark this entire journey. Seeing that guy’s number on his phone let me know that Michael is a part of that “underground ecosystem” and I want to save myself from being a part of that food chain.
My fingers tremble with every digit of Gillian’s number I type onto the phone’s screen. I hit the green icon and hold the phone up to my ear, hoping like hell the call will go through.
Ring. Ring. Ring…
“Hello?” she answers, her voice soft.
“Gillian, it’s me. Meredith. Please don’t hang up. Please!”
The line remains quiet, and for a split second, I think that she believes me, but then she begins to yell. “Fuck you! I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but this shit is not funny! Stop playing your twisted fucking games with me and delete my number! Right now!”
“It’s really me, Gillian.” The words rush out of my mouth. “Michael has kidnapped me. You were right about me trusting him a little too easily, falling in love a little too fast. I’m not missing. I’m still alive, and I need you to call the police.”
I hear her sniffle, so I continue talking. “We played Russian Roulette with a toy gun in our old apartment one night when we both had horrible days at work, remember?” I try to say as much as I can to prove my point, to prevent her from hanging up. “You and Jake argued almost every day when you first started dating. You demanded more from him than any other woman had before. Even though I used to think that you two had the most toxic, up and down relationship ever, I told you that I couldn’t see you dating anyone else. It’s really me, Gillian,” I beg. “Please don’t hang up. Please help me…”
It’s too late.
She’s long gone.
My blood is boiling and although tears are pricking my eyes, I refuse to let them fall.
Crying won’t make any of this make sense.
Nothing is adding up when it comes to the man who calls himself my husband, and I doubt anything ever will. I’ve thought my final move through hundreds of times—weighed the pros and cons, and it’s time to end this one-sided game once and for all.
My husband has never been my partner. He’s the dealer of a twisted game, and he’s finally forcing me to play my best hand.
Slipping the phone into my pocket, I make my way upstairs to face him.
The moment I step into the living room, I clear my throat. “We need to talk. Now.”
“Of course,” he says. “But first, tell me something. How is Gillian?” He smiles. “Did you two have a nice chat?”
I freeze like a deer in headlights, my blood running cold at the shock of his words.
“I’m assuming she didn’t believe it was you who called…” He picks up his whiskey shot glass, tosses it back. “I wouldn’t take that personally. She’s been getting a lot of fake emails and spam calls lately. It’s a shame what some people on the internet will do for attention these days.”
“I’m calling the police now,” I say, pulling the cell phone out of my pocket. My finger hovers above the ‘start call’ icon. “I’m going to tell them everything.”
“Oh?” He raises his eyebrow, not looking rattled in the slightest. “What exactly do you plan on telling them?”
“That my husband kidnapped me and held me in captivity for no reason,” I say, stepping forward. “That he’s clearly involved in some twisted criminal activity, and I’m willing to bet that if they look closely enough, they’ll find a few more things.”
“They’ll find a lot more things.”
“I won’t visit you in prison,” I say, moving toward him, stopping right in front of the chess table. “But I will send you a wedding invitation when I find a man who isn’t full of shit and actually knows what the fuck it means to love someone.”
“You’ll never find another man who is willing to do half of what I’ve done for you, Meredith.” He looks at me. “You can bet millions on that, all fucking day long.”
“I’d bet my life on the opposite of that.”
“If only you knew how fucking ironic those words were….” He averts his gaze to my hand, where I was finally hitting the call icon—daring him to do something, but he remained still.
The phone’s line beeped a couple times, sounded with a few seconds of static, and then it rang.
For a moment, the two of us stare at each other—taking in the last frames of what I’m sure will be the end of us.
A buzzing sound cuts through the silence, and Michael lifts a couch pillow and picks up a different cell pho
ne. Holding it up to his ear, he keeps his eyes on mine as the ringing on my line finally ends.
“9-1-1, emergency response,” he says, his lips curve into a smirk. “How may I help you?”
I drop the phone to the floor, instantly shattering the glass screen against the marble. I stare at him in utter disbelief, complete and utter horror.
“I figured I’d pretend like I didn’t notice when one of my cell phones was missing,” he says. “Like I didn’t know you had it and would probably call Gillian, so…” He shrugs. “I made it so that’s the only number you could reach, especially since I called a few times to make sure she wouldn’t believe it was you.”
I blink.
“You have to anticipate your opponent’s every move, Meredith,” he says. “Be ten steps ahead of him—or her, at all times. That’s why all of our chess games end the same. Your pattern is too damn predictable, and it translates into everything you do. You’re so deeply steeped in your fucking feelings, that you can’t consider any reasons why someone would risk everything for you. But now that we’re on the same page about who will always—”
“Checkmate.” I cut him off in the middle of his spiel, moving my bishop piece in front of his queen—cementing the block on all sides. She has nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
The game is fucking over.
Michael’s gaze falls to the board and he analyzes all the pieces, looking beyond stunned.
“I could’ve beat you the last eight times,” I say. “But I wanted to make sure I memorized your pattern first. It’s the same every time. Risky-ass moves here or there for shock value—to make me think you’re not afraid to lose, because you think it’s beneath you. For the record, you’re one of the most predictable fucking players I’ve ever shared the board with.”
His lips turn up into a small smile as he looks up at me, but he didn’t let it stay.
“Well done, Meredith.” He pushes the table to the side and closes the gap between us. “I’m impressed.”
“I’m a lot smarter than I look. Ten times smarter than you.”
“A little too far-fetched with the last claim,” he says, then he lets out a sigh. “Do you still trust me?”
“Hell no.”
He smiles. “Well, you’re going to have to, if you want me to tell you the truth about why you’re here.”
“Anything short of you saying, I’m having a psychotic break and will check into an asylum, won’t suffice.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” he says, looking deeply into my eyes—forcing my heart to react against my will. The look in his eyes is genuine, and for a split second, he looks like the Michael who I fell for. The Michael who swore he would do anything to protect me.
“You can start talking at any time,” I whisper.
“Not here,” he says, running his fingers through my hair. “We can have this conversation on the way there.”
“Where is there?”
“The next place we have to be,” he says. “It’s going to be a long drive and it’s going to take a few days. Would you like to come with me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you want answers,” he says. “Pack whatever you need by midnight.” He steps back and walks away.
Meredith
Now
I should’ve known better…
The moment we got into Michael’s car, he turned into a mute. He didn’t offer up any answers, didn’t address any of my questions. Instead, he drove me to a small airport hangar near the river, where a salt and pepper haired pilot flew us “closer to the west.”
He didn’t speak to me on the plane at all—save for a “Try not to move so much,” upon landing near an abandoned football field.
From there, he took our bags and ushered me into where we are now—sitting side by side in silence, in an unmarked car that’s speeding down an empty highway.
“I really do love you,” he says, finally breaking the ice. “I fucked up by doing so, but I want you to know that. No matter what, that’s the truth.”
“It’s going to take me a lot more time to say those words to you again.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because husbands who love their wives, typically don’t treat them like pets and keep them like protected hostages.”
“No, they just protect them from anyone who tries to hurt them,” he says. “I’ve done that.”
“Why do you keep saying this shit?” I snap. “The only thing you’ve done is hurt and manipulate me time and time again. One minute you love me, the next you leave me wondering when’s the next time I’ll see you again—all while saying how grateful I should be that you took me away from my life.”
“Someone took out a hit on your fucking life, Meredith,” he hissed, swerving and pulling the car over on the side of the road. “Someone wanted you murdered—dead and gone, chopped up in fucking pieces to where you’d never be found for years. So, that’s why I keep saying this shit. Because I stepped in and saved you from that.”
“What?” My mind begins spinning, and I refuse to believe that. I haven’t hurt anyone, or done anything that heinous to deserve to be murdered.
At least, I don’t think… “There was this guy in Club Swan. Long story short, I stole some money from people who owed him and he made me give it back. But maybe he decided that wasn’t enough? Maybe he wanted to end my life?”
“Rio Warren is not the type to want anyone dead,” he says. “He only cares about money.”
“Then, who would honestly want me gone then?” I shrug. “That just doesn’t make any sense. If you let me see your cell phone, I can call my dad and see if he has any enemies. He’ll be elated to know I’m okay, but he’ll be upset about this for sure. I know my aunt and I don’t get along, but it’s not on that level. I mean, at this point, I’m more willing to believe it was you, if someone told me, but—”
“It’s your fucking father,” he says, clearly upset at the last line I’ve said. “You’ve been crying all these tears about him, but he’s not interested in seeing or hearing from you again. He couldn’t care less about you being gone. If you call him, the last thing he’ll be is elated. He’ll pretend to be, and then he’ll just call someone else to finish the job.”
“No…” I feel the ground shift under my feet, feel my entire world shift on its axis. I haven’t heard anything past, “Your father…took out a hit on your fucking life.” “You’re lying,” was all I could say. “You’re lying…We’ve had our moments, but he would never—he would never do that.”
He pulls a phone out of his pocket and holds it up to my face. Then he hits play.
It’s a grainy video, with two men. One is a young blond—the flower delivery guy who once came into my office every day to deliver Michael’s daily roses. The other man is my father.
“Once we do this, there’s no going back,” Flower Guy says.
“I know. I don’t want her to suffer, though. Nothing too hurtful, okay?”
“Whoa. We’re just making her disappear for a while. There’s nothing too hurtful about that at all.”
“You don’t understand,” my father says. “I want her gone gone. Not just missing. Missing for good, if you catch my drift. I don’t want her body found for at least five years.”
Flower Guy shakes his head. “I’m not authorized to discuss that type of a job with you. You’ll have to take that up with the next guy in the chain.”
“Then get him on the phone or have him meet us here.”
They continue talking, but I have to stop listening. I can feel an unfamiliar heaviness in my chest, and I can’t stop the tears from falling if I tried.
Michael places the car in park and unfastens his seatbelt, leaning over and holding me in his arms for what feels like forever.
I want her gone-gone…
* * *
The next several hours pass by in a hazy blur, marked by a few stops at gas stations and off-road coffee shops, but no words are spoken.
There’s nothing to say.
As the sun sets in the distance, we approach a bridge—where an abandoned grey Honda sits idle.
Michael pulls over to the side of the road and turns off the car. Motioning for me to sit still, he steps out and pops the trunk. Taking out our bags, he moves them to the parked car ahead of us.
After securing the bags into the new trunk, he opens the passenger door and motions for me to get out.
I don’t ask questions. I’m still trying to process the idea of my father wanting me murdered, and I don’t think I’ll ever understand. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.
Settling onto the seat of the newer getaway car, I stare straight ahead and wonder what the hell I could’ve done to make my father want me permanently gone. My heart refuses to accept it, but the wheels in my mind are spinning overtime.
I comb through all of our most recent conversations, the proud look in his eyes when he gave me away at the wedding, the well-wishes he gave at the reception. It’s not until I think back to the night of my impromptu flower delivery from him, that his written words cross my mind. They remain suspended in a freeze frame for several seconds, and a part of the puzzle becomes somewhat clearer.
‘Everyone wants to vote for someone who makes them feel something. Sometimes even sympathy…’
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I swallow. I can’t believe I never questioned him about that before. Never even asked him to prove that he was really dropping out of the campaigns.
I look through the rearview mirror and see Michael stepping out of his old car—him shutting the door as the car rolls forward and down into the lake.
He waits until the roof is completely submerged, and then he walks to our new car and cranks the engine.
“Are you cold?” he asks, pulling onto the road.
“Only on the inside.” I cross my arms. “Is my father still campaigning?”
“He is.”
“So, you were hired to kill me and you chose not to?”
