“How’d it go?” asked the first man.
“Just like we planned,” said the second.
“And?”
“I killed her.”
“You sure she’s dead?”
“I shot her twice in the head and she fell to the ground. I don’t see how she could’ve survived that. My son, Stryker, came home—”
“I thought you said he’d be out.”
“He was supposed to be at his high school, getting ready for their football game. I have no fucking idea why he came home.”
“What happened next?”
“He pulled her into the foyer and performed CPR. Then, he held her.”
“Did you stay until the police showed up?”
“No, I came here after the kid stopped doing CPR.”
“Give me the gun.” Pause. “Get your ass back to your office and stay there. I’ll get rid of the weapon. You act like the grieving husband. No contact with Carla, at all. No texts, no phone calls, no sneaking around. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The police will investigate you, but you’ve got an alibi. They won’t find the weapon. You’ve got no motive.”
“I asked her for a divorce and she told me she wanted us to go to counseling.”
“Dammit. Did you meet with a therapist?”
“No.”
“Did she set up an appointment?”
“I don’t know.”
“That might be a problem. Don’t mention the marital issues when you’re questioned by the police.”
“I won’t.”
“You also need to play the part of a doting dad.”
He laughed. “Jesus, you’re asking a lot.”
“You can fake it for a little while, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Once the police clear you—and they will—you’ll move to Florida.”
“With Carla.”
“And Lyle.”
“Right, of course, sir.”
