by Whitney G.
“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 phone. 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 w
ith 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?”
“I think that’s quite obvious, Meredith,” he says, looking over at me. “Seeing as though you’re still breathing.”
“Is that what you do when you’re not running your nightclub and investing in Broadway plays? Take out people?”
“I make the world a better place.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means we still have several hours to go, and that’s the end of that conversation.”
“Did you decide not to do it because you felt sorry for me?”
“I did it because I fucking liked you, and then I made the huge mistake of fucking loving you.” He looked upset. “Happy?”
“No…What about the people you don’t fall in love with? Do you go through with it on them?”
He doesn’t answer me. He turns the music up, leaving me alone to a mess of my thoughts for longer than I can bear.
Another several hours later
The Sonoran Desert stretches ahead of us for miles, and I realize that we’re nearing the border of Mexico. The sun has yet to rise over the horizon, and the early morning clouds hang low.
We’ve been driving in silence for hours—occasionally stopping for drinks and stretches, bits of “Are you okay?” here or there.
His hand has clasped mine several times, the mere touch of his fingers making me feel a bit more secure with ease. He says the words, “It’ll all make sense in the end,” under his breath, ever so often, but I don’t ask him what that means.
“You know, if your ultimate plan was to save me from my father, and run away together to start new lives, I would’ve been fine with that. All you had to do was tell me that in advance,” I said, trying to start a conversation. “The kidnapping was a bit unnecessary.”
He doesn’t answer. He just stares straight ahead.
He pulls the car over into the parking lot of a small bed and breakfast. He steps out and he motions for me to follow suit.
“It’s time for you to check in.” He pops the trunk and grabs a bag. “Make sure to request a room with a good view.”
He doesn’t grab a bag for himself. There isn’t one for him anymore.
“Aren’t you coming?” I ask.
“Does it look like I’m coming?”
I look down at the bag he hands to me and realize that this isn’t the bag I packed.
This new bag is stuffed with hair dye—strawberry blond, sweaters and hoodies, a disposable camera (Who still uses those?), and toiletries. There are envelopes and money inside, but my journal and personal mementos—things I actually wanted, are nowhere to be found.
“Where is the bag of my real stuff?” I look at him. “The stuff you insisted that I pack?”
“I saw what was in it,” he said. “You won’t need any of that for where you’re going.”
“So, what was the point of you making me pack it?”
“To see if you were willing to trust me again.” His voice is deadpan, and the warmth that was in his eyes earlier is long gone.
I stare at him for several minutes, each moment of silence marking a realization that I’m just now getting to see.
“This is what you were planning to do the whole time, isn’t it?” my voice is hoarse. “This is your idea of saving me from ruin and being my so-called hero?”
“I never told you that I was a fucking hero.” He sounds offended. “I have eight more things to handle, and I would’ve been finished with them by now, if you weren’t in my way. I can’t afford to let you be a burden to me anymore.”
“I’m a burden?”
“I didn’t stutter.” He pulls a wad of bills from his pocket and stuffs them into my jacket. “I have more important things to do than deal with a romance that’ll never work out right now. I’ll handle the divorce and make sure you have access to an account that’ll never run dry.”
“You’re leaving me in Mexico?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“This isn’t twenty-one questions, Meredith,” he says. “You need to listen very carefully, and you need to follow every direction to the letter.”
“Or else what?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“Michael—”
“Meredith.” He cuts me off. “Stop fucking talking, and just do what the hell I’m telling you to do. Now.”
He presses his finger against my lips before I can say another word. “If you don’t, you’ll die, and you’ll have wasted my fucking time.” He glares at me. “Eight o’clock check out. Cab to Naco. Pay in cash and show the Harriet passport. Check into the Rio Grande Hotel, and tell them you’re meeting someone named Benny. There won’t be a Benny, but at noon, you’ll need to swim across the lazy Azul river to avoid the number of protestors that are going to storm the city that day. Traffic will be at a standstill all week, so this is the best way. You’ve been doing one hundred laps a day for weeks, so you should be able to make that swim easily by now…”
I stare at him in utter disbelief.
“When you get there, you’ll tell them your name is Anna,” he says. “You’re a tourist who got lost, and you’d like to visit your security box. It’ll have everything you need. Transportation, more directions, currency, everything. And then four days from now, you’ll need to get to the airport and check in for an eight o’clock flight to Geneva, Switzerland. The receipt for the first-class ticket is already in your bag. The second you get there, you
can start over living happily ever after.”
I shake my head, feeling tears fall down my face.
He repeats his instructions, three more times—each time more painful than the last. When he finishes, he has the audacity to ask me if I have any questions.
“Fuck you, Michael.” I step back. “Fuck you.”
“I never told you that this would be a fairytale,” he says. “I told you on the night we met that we couldn’t go any further. It’s your fault for getting your goddamn hopes up.”
“I thought you said that you wanted me to trust you.”
“You should trust me,” he says. “I just helped you get a whole new goddamn life. You can’t go back to New York, and you damn sure can’t live in the United States,” he says. “You can make something of yourself overseas, though. You once said that you could live anywhere and do fashion, so now’s the chance to see if you’re right.”
“Michael, please tell me that this is some type of sick joke. What about us? All the things you said about restarting what we had?”
“This is the end of us, Meredith.” He shrugs. “I said all of those things because at one point I thought I could mean them. Now, I’ve realized that I don’t, and I think that’s for the best.”
I don’t respond. I just let my mind remind me just how big of a fool I am for ever trusting this man.
“I need you to listen very carefully to this final list of directions I’m about to give you.” He starts talking again. “I wrote you this letter explaining the first part of everything I’ve done in detail. Should you take my advice and arrive at all the locations on time, a second letter will arrive explaining the rest.”
I take the letter from his hands and rip it in half. Then into smaller shreds, again and again.
“You’re going to regret that, Meredith.”
“The only thing I regret is falling in love with you.”
“So, you don’t enjoy living?” he hissed. “Because that’s far more important than some relationship. I’ve just ensured that you’ll get to keep doing that. You can say, ‘Thank you’ at any given time.”
