“What the hell is this?” Stanley asked, his hands trembling as he tied the rope.
“Just make sure the knot is good and tight,” I said, before pulling the other end of the rope from the bag. Stanley’s eyes fell when he saw the noose I’d fashioned.
“Y—you promised you’d let me live,” he protested.
“A promise I’m going to keep. But you need to do everything I say first, remember?”
Stanley nodded in compliance once again.
“Good, now put this around your neck and step onto the stair rail.”
“What? No way. No fucking way. Please, please don’t make me do this,” he cried.
“The note’s not enough. I want a video. Video of you up on that rail, ready to hang yourself over how sorry you are. This will prove that you promise you will never ever try to hurt her again. This will show her that you fully understand what will happen to you if you so much as come near her.”
“You’re gonna fucking push me over the edge,” Stanley sobbed
“I promised I’d let you live, and I promise I won’t push you over the edge, now get up on that rail now or Iwillshoot you.”
Stanley’s knees knocked as he made his way onto the rail. His legs straddling the wooden banister, his knuckles white as he held on for dear life.
“I’m gonna fall,” he cried.
“No, you won’t,” I assured him. “I’ll hold on to the rope as you stand up. I’ll be your anchor and you’ll be fine. As soon as you’re up, I’ll hold on to the rope with one hand while I film you with the other.”
“I fucking can’t, man. I’m afraid of heights.”
“You afraid of bullets?” I challenged. “Stand up or you die now.”
It wasn’t until Stanley stood up on the rail that I could see he’d pissed his pants.
“Okay. I’m up, I’m up. Take the video. Take it now before I fall,” he begged. His legs visibly trembling underneath him as I kept the rope taught.
“Sure, one more thing first,” I replied, before stepping forward, causing the rope to go slack.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Stanley wheezed as he struggled to keep his balance. “I’m gonna fall.”
“Careful,” I said, taking a half step back allowing him to regain his balance. “Don’t fall, and if you do, don’t fall forward. ’Cause I’ll shoot you and make sure you die slow.”
“You promised you’d let me live,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I did, but I never said for how long. Besides, I’m not gonna kill you. Gravity is.”
I dropped the rope to the floor, leaving Stanley Morter’s life in his own shaky legs.
“You sonofabitch. You planned this to look like a suicide,” he said. “The scotch, the letter, the n—noose.”
“I warned you not to fuck with me and I warned you not to go near Rowan. You didn’t listen.”
“I’m listening, n—now, I swear. P—please don’t let me hang. Don’t let me die. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
“You did this to yourself.”
“P-please, I—”
As he begged for his life, Stanley lost his balance, causing him to fall backwards, his arms outstretched to me as he did. He dropped about eight feet before he reached the end of the rope. His neck snapped immediately, and his lifeless body swayed like a pendulum back and forth over the grand marbled foyer.
Stanley was right, I’d staged his death to look like a suicide. A half-empty bottle of rare, valuable scotch in his bedroom next to a vague note written in his own hand, and then of course, the hanging itself. He did recently lose his father, after all. Grief stricken, Stanley came home one night to his empty home, disabled the alarm so no one could see his death, got blind drunk and hung himself. That’s how I made it look and that’s exactly what the cops and the media thought happened. And why not? There was certainly nothing to connect me to the scene, and the cops never had reason to suspect foul play.