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’snotso 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.