I waltz out of Dean’s garage, wrapping the scarf around my hand and punching the button to close the garage door as I walk away. Dean’s Audi is still running, and if someone doesn’t find him soon, who knows what will happen. Such a tragic accident. Dean—high out of his mind and recovering from a random act of violence only a few weeks ago—passes away in his carbecause he started the engine without opening the door and then lost consciousness.
Now, my husband really is dead, and my online persona as a widow is a reality. It’s like I manifested this outcome out of thin air. The overused Pinterest quote runs through my mind thatlife is what happens when you’re busy making other plans,but Ididplan this…sort of. I think of an amusinghow it started/how it’s goingthemed Instagram post with our wedding photo and one of Dean’s lifeless body slumped behind the wheel of his Audi, taking his last breaths. Side by side, the juxtaposition would be wild. I really am a black widow.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I want since Dean walked out, and the only thing I know for sure is that I’d rather be in hell than alone.
“Adios, Dean. Fuck you very much.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Well,try it again.” My irritation spikes.
The desk clerk at the Ritz in Tahoe looks annoyed. More annoyed than me, and I’m the one whose credit card is getting declined.
“Listen, there’s plenty of money in the account. Trust me, I just checked it. Please, just run it again.”
The clerk sighs then attempts to swipe my card again. It’s only been half a day since I split on Chicago, and the mountain breeze is really everything I needed. As soon as I stepped off the plane, I regretted not visiting this part of California sooner. The mountains are still snow-topped, and the lush evergreens are a breath of fresh air.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Declined.” His stern gaze holds mine.
I shrink under his gaze. “That’s the only card I have. What should I do?”
“I can call you a cab to take you to the local hostel. Room rates are considerably less.”
“T-the hostel? But that doesn’t sound safe.”
“Lots of hikers and snowboarders. It’s very safe.”
“B-but I would still need a card.” My heart is hammering with anxiety.
“Yes.” He waits a beat, looks me up and down, and then offers, “If you’re in need, the cab can take you to the women’s shelter too, if that would suit you better.”
“The women’s shelter?”
“Yes. Fare is on us, of course.”
I swallow the painful lump that’s formed in my throat. “I-I guess I need to figure out something.”
He nods. “Right away, ma’am.”
He uses a small call box to alert the local cab company that a car is needed.
“They should be here in about fifteen minutes. You’re welcome to wait in the lobby in the meantime.”
“Okay.” I back away, defeated. “I’ll try to call my bank and ask them what’s going on.”
He nods. “As you wish.”
As soon as I sit on the leather sofa, I pull out my phone and log in to my bank account. I have plenty of money available. Anger floods my bloodstream as I bring up the customer service number for my bank. It takes exactly six minutes before I’m connected with someone and can inquire why my card is being declined. The woman seems frustrated with me before I’ve even offered my account number. Once she looks it up and confirms that the balance is well above zero, she clicks her tongue a moment and then asks if she can put me on hold while she reads some notes on my account.
I agree, and then sit for a few more minutes listening to boring elevator music.
When she returns, her tone is more positive. “I’m sorry—it looks like your card has been locked, Mrs. Halston.”
“No.” I can’t hide my annoyance now. “Why?”
“It looks like your husband called and asked to have your card canceled.”
“What? How can he do that? We share the account. Doesn’t that mean neither one of us can make a decision without the other?”
