by Brad Parks
Now this most extraordinary man had called on me for assistance. It wasn’t something that would benefit him. It was—and, admittedly, this was the pill I had the hardest time swallowing—something that would rescue humanity from a sweltering Armageddon.
If I didn’t do it, Jenny would wind up dead anyway, taken by the Praesidium. As would I. My daughters would be either collateral damage—as Rogers had so chillingly put it—or orphans.
This was exactly what had been explained to me four days earlier. I just hadn’t believed it then.
I was out of reasons I shouldn’t believe it now.
Whether it was the tug of destiny or the most brutal exercise in existential math—that there were three people who mattered most to me and there was only one way to keep at least two of them alive—I could no longer fight it:
I was going to do this.
This was really happening.
Heedless of my torment, the Welker-Lovejoy household slipped toward its final bedtime.
As the girls played upstairs, I continued mindlessly tidying the house, like it would really matter whether the toys were put away and the couch cushions were straight when the police came.
With no desire to make dinner—much less the stomach to eat it—I called Jenny’s favorite Indian place and arranged for delivery. Her last supper would consist of vegetable samosa, palak paneer, and naan.
I could already feel myself starting to mourn her. She was, truly, the love of my life and always would be; the woman who dazzled me like no other; the one with whom I had shared sunsets, and music, and food, and love, and life.
The very best parts of life. I thought of all the different phases our relationship had been through, and found myself paging through scenes from every different chapter.
Climbing the ladder together as young associates, measuring our lives in six-minute increments, gleefully calculating how much it had cost the firm when we took time out to have sex.
Pitching in and helping her dad put a new roof on a shed, being astonished at how hard I had to work just to keep up with her.
Picking out an engagement ring only to have her make me return it, because she’d rather use the money for a down payment on a house that we would share, not a trinket that she alone would wear.
Having her fall asleep with her head in my lap early during her first pregnancy, looking down at the way her curls cascaded across my jeans, feeling astonished by what was growing inside her.
And a hundred other images, all of them running into each other, invoking different parts of our journey together.
With every new transition, the one thing that remained constant was that being with her—hearing her stories, seeing her smile, feeling her touch—was the best part of my day.
And, yes, I should have been livid with her, repulsed by what she had been doing with Greg Grichtmeier. And I was. Truly. It was a betrayal of the worst sort, a shattering of our vow and of the trust we had placed in each other.
But I already felt myself putting that in a box along with all the other recent and soon-to-happen things that I would try not to think about anymore.
I would never know why she’d cheated on me—what had been so bad about us that she felt she had to stray. And maybe that was okay. The accusations, the explanations, the recriminations, the drawn-out and teary how-could-yous—those were only things that you needed to endure if you were somehow still trying to find a way forward with someone.
That was no longer happening. It had been ripped away from us. So what was the point of dragging us through that terrible, wrenching conversation?
Or maybe I just didn’t want that to be my penultimate moment with her.
Nor did I need it anywhere near my heart as I killed her.
Because, truly, this was not an act of anger. Or of vengeance.
It was purely desperation.
I was doing it because I had no other choice.
Once I was out of things to fuss with downstairs, I crept upstairs, eavesdropping silently from just outside the door to the nursery, overcome with emotion—more for the girls than for myself.
This was the last time they would ever hear their mother read them a book. And they probably wouldn’t even remember it. Cate certainly wouldn’t. Parker? She might—might—be able to summon an image of her mother in her head someday. It would likely be an ethereal thing, a fuzzy face looming over her, some mix of an actual memory and the pictures of her mother I would show her. She wouldn’t be able to place it in any sort of narrative. Three-year-old brains simply weren’t that good at creating memories.
I peeked around the corner. As usual, Parker was planted on Jenny’s right leg, Cate on the left side, the snuggle-read in full bloom.
Seeing Jenny just hurt. She didn’t look like a cheater. And she didn’t look like a hundred Hitlers about to unleash mass death on the earth.
She was just my Jenny, as beautiful as ever.
It was easier to focus on the girls. I would be doing this for them, after all.
Taking their mother but giving them their lives.
I stayed there, listening for as long as I could bear it. When I became aware I couldn’t really breathe without sobbing, and that there were tears dripping down my face, I backed away and crept slowly back downstairs.
Jenny just continued with the book, either unaware of my presence or choosing to ignore it.
And wasn’t it wild.
I still loved my cheating wife.
I still blessed the broken road that led me to her.
And I knew that when I pulled the trigger at 9:47 p.m., I would also be murdering some huge piece of my own heart.
CHAPTER 35
NATE
My girls were asleep. All of them.
I was sitting in the living room in my long pants and long shirt, as per Rogers’ orders. I was wearing socks instead of shoes, reasoning that they would be easier to clean—and also quieter as I crept around the house.
Had Jenny walked in on me, she would have seen her husband listening to music with his earbuds in, never realizing he was only doing it so he didn’t have to hear himself think.
Except Jenny hadn’t come back downstairs after putting the girls to bed. She hadn’t even eaten the Indian food I had procured for her. She had just gone to sleep.
Leaving me by myself to eye the clock.
The guards that had come home with Jenny had settled in outside. It was the same two as the night before. The guy with the bushy white mustache was out front. The one with the gray flattop was in back.
Every now and then I’d become aware of their presence because one of them scraped a chair across the porch, or checked his phone, or cleared his throat.
Just having them out there made me feel like a prisoner in my own house.
But I guess I was going to have to get used to that.
Being a prisoner.
Would this magic, ballistics-test-distorting gun Rogers had given me actually make that big a difference at my trial?
There was already a strong circumstantial case against me. I could easily imagine Detective Ishmael Khalilu on the witness stand, describing the anonymous complaint that had led to a file being opened on me, offering expert testimony regarding the high incidence of people who choked their partners who then went on to become murderers. There were two guards outside my house, making it extremely difficult for anyone else to get inside to shoot her.
Plus, there was that innate bias: wife dead, husband accused of murder. Three-quarters of the jurors out there would be ready to convict before they heard a word of testimony.
With Jenny dead, would I even care?
Maybe I’d feel different later, when I thought about the girls being raised without their father. Some sense of parental self-preservation would kick in, and the nihilism that currently consumed me would ease away.
For the time being, I felt like nothing I did mattered anyway.
Learning there’s no free will can have that effect.
I had stashed the silencer in the same plastic bin as the gun. After delicately lowering the bin to the floor, I removed both pieces. The pistol felt even heavier than it had when I’d first hid it three days earlier.
Placing them both on the workbench, I studied them in what little illumination poured down the basement stairs from above. Jenny and I had a long-standing debate about whether a gun was a versatile tool with multiple uses or a specialized instrument of death.
Right now, I think even she’d have to agree with me. This gun had only one purpose, and it was lethal.
With the grip of the pistol still resting on the table, I tilted up the barrel, then picked up the silencer. After a few tries, I managed to get it properly threaded. A few rotations later, it was on securely, its dull blackness standing in stark contrast to the silver of the gun.
This was the part where a seasoned hunter or marksman—someone who actually knew what they were doing with a firearm—would double-check the weapon to make sure there was a round in the chamber. I had no idea where to even start with that. I also worried I’d never get the thing back together if I started pulling it apart.
That would have to be a detail I trusted to the Praesidium.
I picked up the gun. I wanted to be able to hide it somewhere—the waistband of my pants, my pocket, something like that—except now that the silencer was affixed, it didn’t fit anywhere. I would just have to keep it in my gloved hand.
As I moved back toward the stairs, I felt like destiny really had taken over. It was not merely guiding me or making suggestions. It was fully in control of my central nervous system, making my thighs lift, my feet fall, my calves thrust. Nothing I did felt fully voluntary.
Including what happened when I reached the top of the staircase, where I froze in place for a moment.
The guy with the bushy mustache was sitting in the middle of the porch. If he happened to turn around—because he heard me or sensed my presence somehow—he would see me, standing at the top of the stairs, a gun clutched menacingly in my hand.
But it was fated to be that his head didn’t move.
Such an irony that he was looking to safeguard Jenny from outward dangers when the greatest threat was actually coming from within.
I quickly pivoted, turning my back to him, keeping the pistol tight against my chest, so that if he did happen to turn, he wouldn’t see that I had a weapon. Just the man of the house, going up to bed.
Once I hit the landing of the stairs leading to the second floor, I took two steps up quickly, putting myself out of his sight. I paused there for a moment, collecting myself, catching my breath.
Then I continued upward. Every creak of the stairs sounded like branches snapping. Every breath was a minor typhoon. I had to remind myself that though these noises seemed amplified to me, they were either routine—or inaudible—to everyone else in the house.
I knew I wasn’t going to wake up Jenny.
Rogers wouldn’t know about Mr. White if I had.
Two steps away from the second-floor landing, I paused again. I was now within sight of our bedroom door, which was ajar by perhaps six inches. Neither light nor noise came from within.
The doors to the girls’ bedrooms were closed. This was the same scene that would have confronted me hundreds of other evenings, except this time, my heart was pounding so fiercely—the Telltale Heart, Poe might have called it—I swore it was nearly knocking me off balance.
I placed my foot on the second-to-last step. It groaned under my weight.
So did the next step. It was like the house itself was registering its protest to what I was about to do.
Finally I was on the second floor.
I shuffled silently toward our bedroom. I hadn’t touched the door yet, but I could peek around it and see the lump of Jenny’s body on the bed. She was on her side, turned away from me.
That must have been why I was able to do this. I don’t think I could have pulled the trigger if I had to look at her, peacefully sleeping. That face I loved so much.
The digital clock on her nightstand read 9:44.
Then I watched as it turned to 9:45.
Exactly as Rogers had said it would. Exactly as DeGange had foretold.
That gave me two minutes to . . . what had he said? Summon my courage? What a terrible choice of phrasing. Like there was something courageous about shooting your wife in cold blood while she slept.
I pushed through the door, determined to finish this, reminding myself I had to do this for the girls, for the planet, telling myself that Jenny would forgive me if she understood my motivations.
My socked feet made no sound as they brushed against the hardwood floor of our bedroom. I took one step, two steps, walking in a line toward Jenny.
I was maybe eight feet away. I drew in a deep breath and—
Jenny whirled around into a sitting position, the sheet and blanket flying off almost like they had been thrown.
“Stop right there,” she said. “Don’t shoot.”
She had her own silver-plated pistol.
And it was pointed at my head.
CHAPTER 36
JENNY
Up until the last moment, Jenny didn’t think Nate was going to do this.
Not her Nate. No chance.
He was the man who had loved her, wildly and unconditionally—in a way she hadn’t thought a man could love a woman—since the moment they’d met. He was a model husband who seemed almost devoid of ego, willingly stepping aside to make way for his wife’s career. He was a selfless father, utterly devoted to his daughters. He was a gentle soul, the kind who captured wasps under a glass, then set them free.
Yes, he had lied about visiting J. Hunter Matthews’ house. She had seen the footage on that thumb drive. And he had also lied about collaborating with Dickel to get the lawsuit dropped. She’d known the moment the words rabbit hole had left his mouth.
But he was as far from being a murderer as it was possible to be.
Which is why she never believed a thing about this deluded prophecy she had been given.
That her husband would enter her room at 9:45 on Friday evening with a gun.
That at 9:47 he would fire it at her head.
That the only way to stop him would be to shoot first.
And no.
No, no, and no.
Yet here was Nate, right on time. Just as Lorton Rogers had said he would be. Just as Vanslow DeGange had predicted.
“Put the gun down, Nate,” she said. “Or I swear I will pull this trigger. And I don’t want to pull the trigger, Nate, I really don’t.”
He had this terrifying blank look on his face, like Nate Lovejoy wasn’t even there, having been taken over by some mind-controlling parasite.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t really have a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice. Nate, look at me. It’s me, Jenny. Your wife. I love you. That’s what matters. Nothing else. Whatever they’re paying you, it’s not worth it. Now put the gun down.”
“No,” he said. “We only think we have choices. Everything is . . . it’s already set. It’s done. I’m sorry, Jenny. I really, really am. But I have to do this. At nine forty-seven. It’s the only way to save the girls.”
He edged a little closer. The gun was still level with her face.
“Save the girls?” she said. “What the hell are you talking about? How will shooting me save the girls?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“I . . . I have to shoot you or else this man, this group, they’ll come and take out the entire family. They’ll blow up the house or—”
“You’re talking about Lorton Rogers? Of t
he Praesidium?”
Jenny felt like she didn’t even need to wait for Nate to answer. Of course it was Rogers. Manipulative, cunning Rogers. The only question remaining was how much of Nate’s oddities over the past few days were directly attributable to the man.
The blank look had left Nate’s face. He was now just startled. “You know him?”
“Oh my God, Nate. I have no idea what’s going on right now, but please put the gun down. Yes, I know Rogers. He’s been lying to both of us. He’s trying to get me to kill you, and—”
“You’re supposed to kill me?” Nate said, now plainly astonished. “He told me I had to kill you. And I did kill you. I must have, because he . . . he knew about Mr. White. How else would he know about Mr. White unless—”
“I told him about Mr. White,” Jenny said. “I’m sorry. He was trying to spin this whole story about how you were going to . . . look, it was a lie. Probably everything he’s told both of us is a lie. He said Commonwealth Power and Light was paying you twenty million dollars to either convince me to drop the lawsuit or to kill me if I wouldn’t cooperate. The deadline was supposedly Friday at midnight.”
“That’s not true. I swear, I—”
“I know, I know. I believe you, okay? Just, seriously, put the gun down.”
Jenny kept her grip firm and her sights level until Nate finally lowered his weapon. But even as he did, there was no sense of relief in her. They were both still in danger. Rogers was out there somewhere, listening, expecting to hear a gunshot any moment. She laid her gun on the pillow next to her and started talking quickly.
“Rogers has been manipulating everything. He said that once you failed to persuade me to drop the CP and L suit, you were going to enter our room tonight at nine forty-five with a gun and murder me. He said if I confronted you about the twenty-million-dollar payoff at any time before nine forty-five on Friday night, you would fly into a rage and kill both me and the girls. I said that was impossible, that you would never do something like that. That’s when I told him about Mr. White. I said you could never hurt a child because you had been abused as a child yourself and . . . I’m sorry, that part just slipped out.
