This was ridiculous. I was foolish to worry about a stupid piece of paper. I couldn’t be a suspect for a crime that hadn’t happened yet. And there was no way I was even considering this. If his wife wanted him dead, she could find someone else to do it. And I could get on with my—
Oh …
My hands gripped the wheel. This woman had sounded serious. Fifty thousand dollars was serious, right? What would happen if she did find someone else to do it? Could I become a suspect? I might.
Unless …
I checked my rearview mirror as I merged into traffic. What if no one found a body? What if no one knew for sure this Harris Mickler person was dead? There wouldn’t necessarily be a suspect at all, right?
I could practically hear Steven’s voice in my head, telling me I was being ridiculous, that I was imagining the worst and making up stories. It was the argument he always fell back on, the one he’d unloaded on me when I first suspected he’d slept with Theresa behind my back.
Only this time, I hated that he was right.
I smacked the steering wheel, cursing myself as I hugged the far-right lane of the toll road. Why was I even thinking about this? I had real-life problems to deal with: looming deadlines without babysitters or advances, overdue car payments, relentless calls from bill collectors … And this whole situation with Harris Mickler, this was sick. This was twisted.
This was fifty thousand dollars.
A horn blared behind me, and I jumped in my seat, speeding up a little to stay with the flow of traffic. I should pitch the note out the window, I told myself, and forget this ever happened.
I tapped the wheel. Switched on the radio. Switched it off again. Checked my speed as I glided past the toll booths through the E-ZPass lane, unable to stop replaying the conversation in my mind.
My husband … He’s … not a nice man.
Was he “forgets our anniversary” not nice, I wondered? Or was he “sleeping around” not nice? Because banging your real estate agent isn’t a reason to want your husband dead. It might be a legitimate reason to want his balls maimed in an accident involving a Weedwacker, or to wish him a horrific venereal disease whose symptoms include the words “burning discharge.” But killing a man for cheating on his wife would be wrong. Wouldn’t it?
If it was just the once, maybe I would understand, but there have been others. So many others.
Exactly how many were we talking? Five? Ten? Fifty thousand?
And why would telling him she knew about the others be very, very bad?
I turned into my driveway, grinding to a stop beside the stack of unpaid bills on the front stoop, praying that Steven had paid my electric bill as I clicked the button on the remote. A relieved breath rushed out of me when the garage door groaned open. I eased the van inside and shut the door behind me, staring at the empty pegboard as I turned off the engine. The garage was dark and quiet, and I sat for a while, thinking. About my kids. About my bills. About Steven and Theresa.
About all the real-life problems fifty thousand dollars could fix.
I fished the crumpled note from my pocket and peeled it open, wondering how bad a husband Harris Mickler really was.
CHAPTER 3
The clock on the microwave was flashing when I opened the door to the kitchen. I knew I had Steven to thank for it; he would never let our children stay in a home without power. Still, it was hard to feel grateful for hot water and lights when it was Steven’s fault our home had fallen apart to begin with. I was pretty sure this was all part of his attorney’s plan, conceding to give me as little as possible every month so Steven could swoop in and save the day, restoring the illusion of his moral worth while throwing shade on mine.
The longer it went on, the more I wondered if he was right. I spent the next several hours thinking about Harris Mickler. In my more virtuous moments, I imagined him as a Hugh Jackman look-alike—too charming and attractive to possibly fend off the countless women who must be throwing themselves at him, the poor victim of a jealous wife who would probably benefit from his life insurance policy. During moments I was far less proud of, I imagined him as Joe Pesci on Viagra and strongly considered the fact that, at his height, I could probably lift his lifeless body into the back of my van.
These thoughts were usually accompanied by fantasies of full shopping carts in big-box stores. Fantasies where I let myself calculate how many economy-size packs of Huggies, Lean Cuisines, and baby wipes fifty thousand dollars could buy.
I pressed my forehead to the door of my home office, disgusted with myself. If I needed money, I should just write the damn book my agent and editor were waiting for.