It’s over. I did it.
Her or me, I kept telling myself. One of us gets twenty-one million, one of us gets nothing.
Lauren brought this on herself. She did this. She got into the ring with me. She tried to steal my money.
I have no connection to Lauren Betancourt. I have no connection to Vicky or Simon Dobias. I’m just some guy in the city who— My head whips to the left at the sound of the door from the garage. Someone’s coming in. Gavin? Why would— “Hello?” I call out, my heart pounding so hard I can hardly speak.
I recognize the sound of her footfalls as she bounds up the stairs. “It’s just me,” Vicky calls out.
I meet her at the top of the stairs. “What are you doing here? You can’t be here.”
“I had to see you.” She is dressed in a coat, wool stocking cap with her hair tucked under, and gloves. She puts her gloved hands on my cheeks. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I was going crazy with worry—”
“I’m okay, I’m okay. You shouldn’t be here. I cleaned everything up so there’s no—”
“I’ll keep my gloves on,” she says. “And coat and hat. Don’t worry.”
I don’t put up a fight. I’m right—she shouldn’t be here—but I can’t deny that I’m glad to see her, to have some company right now, some comforting voice.
“So—tell me what happened?”
“What happened is—” I blow out air. “What happened is it’s over. It’s done.”
“It is?” The look on her face, like a combination of relief and alarm.
“Yeah, but listen—it didn’t go as planned. The gun jammed. I got it done, anyway. It’s done, and I don’t see how I left any trace of myself behind.”
“But . . . she’s dead,” Vicky whispers.
“Yes.”
“For sure?”
“For absolute sure.” I grab her arm, pull her toward the kitchen. “You should leave. I want you to stay but you can’t. Go back through the alley.”
“We need to talk,” she says. “About Simon.”
“I thought you could handle Simon,” I say. “What—Okay, what about Simon?”
“I think . . . I think he suspects something.”
“Wait, what? Suspects what?”
“I think . . . he suspects I’m seeing someone.”
“Why?”
“He was . . .” She brushes past me, waving her arms. “He was asking me questions today.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m pouring myself a drink,” she says. “With my gloves on, don’t worry. Sit down and relax. You’re making me more nervous than I already am. Actually . . .”
“Actually what?”
“You should take a shower, Christian. It’ll calm you down. Scrub it all away. Then we can figure this out together.”
As fidgety as I am, a shower sounds perfect.
? ? ?
It helps. I do it fast but efficiently, scrubbing every orifice of my body, head to toe, lathering on soap and washing everything away. When I’m done, I throw on a T-shirt and shorts. I want to shave, but where—Where’s my razor? Dammit. Where the fuck is— “I don’t have forever,” Vicky calls out from the living room.
Okay, fine. I walk back into the room. Vicky, thankfully, has kept on all her winter gear, a cap covering her hair, still wearing the gloves. I’ll probably vacuum again after she leaves, anyway, but she’s unlikely to leave any trace of herself.
“To us,” she says, clinking our glasses of Basil Hayden. Mine’s a healthy one, but I down it in one gulp. I’m not drinking for pleasure tonight. I need to stay calm.
Vicky takes a sip of her drink. “Make sure to wash this glass after I leave,” she says.
“Don’t worry, I will.” Okay. Deep breath and calm down. “What did Simon say?”
She sits next to me on the couch. “He asked me today. Point-blank. He said, ‘Have you been faithful to me?’ He didn’t even say it in an accusatory way. It was more like he was resigned to it. He said, ‘I know things haven’t been like they should for a while.’”
That’s not good. That’s not good at all.
“He’s laying the mattress for the divorce,” I say. “He’s breaking it to you slowly. And he’s trying to make himself feel better about it by accusing you of cheating on him.”
That’s how most people work, in my experience, and I have a lot of experience in breaking up marriages. If they feel guilty about how they’re treating you, they want to turn you into the bad guy. They start to treat you with cruelty.