Still, she’s a sensible girl. She’s not Daria and she won’t leave the doors unlocked.
Once on a family trip, my ex did exactly that, and we came back to our vacation rental with a beach bum stoner crashing in our bed.
Margot isn’t that stupid.
I can see her making the rounds, glued to her phone for any notification hinting trouble.
Everything’s fine.
If only I could convince my gut.
And at the thirty-minute mark when she should’ve texted me passes, I do my damnedest not to panic and try mudding it through the ditch.
She’s probably watching TV, you jumpy fuck.
Working on more shoe designs.
Cooking something delicious that’ll punch me in the nose the second I get back.
Yeah, that’s the sort of thing she’d do because my woman has a spine.
That doesn’t stop me when I can’t stand the radio silence a second longer.
I punch out a quick message asking for an update.
Last message from her was forty-three minutes ago.
That could mean nothing.
She probably put it down while she was cleaning or cooking or just lost track of time.
After all, I told her I was leaving, and the traffic would suck.
All thanks to this dick-dragging weather.
Another ten minutes limp by and she doesn’t message me back.
Shit.
I’m a patient man, but everyone has their limits.
So I call her, wrenching my way around a car and creeping along the edge of the asphalt in a dangerous sprint that gains me a few extra feet of road.
The call goes straight to voicemail.
I start talking before the beep, but there’s a catch like someone picks up.
“Margot?” Nothing. “Margot? You’re scaring me, woman.”
Static.
A burst of mindless distortion, and then two distant voices.
I can’t make out the words, but there’s a man’s voice, and a higher-pitched one that has to be her.
A scream.
Definitely Margot.
