I force a smirk to my mouth—anything to get her to leave it be—and nod. “Yes.”
“Now you’re talking.”
I check my messages to find Brian has sent two:
Brian:I’ll be home tomorrow!
Brian:Can’t wait to see you. I hated leaving again.
I type out a nasty message, imagine myself hitting send—then delete the whole thing and swipe to a different text thread as Pipergets up to join her nieces in the pool. I pause long enough to watch her help Eliza with goggles, to see Evie giggle with a little boy around her age, to settle into this moment for just a breath or two, before my life is ruined.
I do wonder. If I’d been around more, been more attentive, paid closer attention, would I have caught this earlier…or headed it off altogether?
I’ll never know.
To Ian, I write:Home yet?
Ian:Just got in. I’ll bein Texas tomorrow, just need to take care of things here first.
A needle of guilt pricks me. He has a wife, a daughter. And still, he’s coming here, to help. Hekissedme. I’m still not sure how to feel about that.
Ian:You doing okay? Need anything?
I snap a shot of the plastic cup of wine, the pool in the background.I’m good.
Ian:You’re at least very skilled at pretending to be good.
My nose scrunches up at his comment.What does that mean?
Ian:You’ll be happy again, Nadia. I promise.
Peering at the message, I wonder if he’s right. If I will be. If I’m capable of it after this. Or—another way to read it is that he’spromisinghewill make me happy. Which is a ridiculous sentiment. No one can make someone else happy, not really.
I’m not sure I’ll be content again, but I will be okay. And so will the girls. Just as soon as I say what needs saying, force Brian to answer my questions, and then kill him.
Ian:I’ll be in town late tomorrow.
It’s perfect timing. I’ll deal with Brian, and Ian will be there to help in the aftermath.
Returning to Brian’s message, I type out:When does your flight get in? I’m coming to pick you up.
Brian:5:05 pm.
He adds a string of hearts, like he can’t wait to see me, his little wife. Like he’s not fucking someone else. Like he’s not arranging for people to be bought and sold like they are little more than office supplies or cattle.
Great, I write back.I have a surprise for you.
Chapter Forty-Two
Unless you’re planning on lotsof blood, you don’t need plastic sheeting and masking tape. In fact, if you know how to contain your kill, a picnic blanket works quite nicely. You know the sort, probably made of recycled bottles, rolls up, and has a little sling so you can put it over one shoulder. It was perfect for the pool—and tonight, it will be perfect for killing Brian.
Another mistake the movies make—going somewhere abandoned.
If a police cruiser sees my minivan outside an abandoned warehouse, I assure you the officer will not ignore it. So the next afternoon, I’m off the highway, in the last of a long row of rooms at a cheap motel. The sort that didn’t ask for my name, doesn’t require a credit card, and where the seventy-year-old owner behind the desk is already drinking—a whiskey sour, if I’m not mistaken.
I unlock the door with an actual key. The room looks unchanged since maybe 1980—yellow wallpaper with crimson accents. Stepping inside, I trail my fingertips over the comforter, which, given its polyester, stain-resistant coating, might work just as well as plasticsheeting. My feet squish on the old brown carpet, and I crinkle my nose as the stench of cigarettes hits me.
But it’s perfect—the sort of place where no one will report a loud bump, and if it smells a little off when the next guest arrives, well, that’s just part of the charm.
