Her dead body is slumped in the backseat. Her eyes are still open.
Marnie Cassidy’s eyes.
I had lured her to this spot by sending her the message on a burner line via a private app many “celebrities” （mostly those in the reality world） use. How did I lure her? By offering salvation. By offering a life preserver when she was slipping under the choppiest of waters. I knew that Marnie would not be able to resist, that she would find a way to sneak out to meet me. Her world was collapsing in on her. The truth of what she had done had started to leak out into the world.
We are in my car. I again stole a license plate and then marked it up so that it would be nearly unreadable. I’m wearing a disguise. So had Marnie. Fans and even some press had gathered around her building after Jenn’s post, so she sneaked out a back exit. If the police decided to do a hardcore investigation, I assume that they would still be able to pick her up on various street cams until the subway car. Would they be able to see her get on the 1 train at 72nd Street and head downtown? Probably. Would they eventually spot her getting off on Christopher Street, walking three blocks, jumping into the back of this car?
I don’t know.
It would take time. We have been brainwashed by television into thinking that law enforcement is nearly infallible. That is, I’ve learned, nonsense. They make mistakes. They take time to get and sift through information. They only have so many man-hours, and technology has its limits.
Murders still go unsolved.
That said, I realize that I only have a limited shelf life with all this. If I continue, I will get caught. To deny that would be foolish. I am parked in Manhattan near the West Side Highway. I found a quiet spot—quiet enough anyway. It was near a construction site and right now, no one is working. It didn’t take long.
She gets in. I turn. I fire three times into Marnie’s pathetic, lying face.
Daring? Sure. But sometimes the best places to hide are in plain sight.
Marnie’s phone was in her hand when I shot her. From the driver’s seat, I stretch back and pick it up off the floor. I try to unlock it via facial recognition by holding it up to her face, but with the damage done to it, the phone won’t open. Too bad. I had hoped to perhaps text Jenn a message pretending to be Marnie and stating that I was going away for a few weeks until things cooled down. That doesn’t look possible now.
Could they trace her phone to this spot?
I’m not sure. I will destroy it—but does the technology exist so that they can see when and where she headed out of her apartment? My guess is, the answer is yes. Okay, fine. I have a plan for that too.
I throw a blanket over her body, though I don’t really think CCTV or a bystander could look into the back window and see much. The blood did not reach the windows, so I don’t have to bother wiping them down. I drive now through the Lincoln Tunnel and take the Boulevard East exit toward Weehawken. I can’t resist the small detour and make the almost hidden right turn onto Hamilton Avenue. The view of Manhattan from this side of the river—the New Jersey side—is breathtaking. The skyline is laid out in all its glory. There is no view of New York City like the ones across the river in New Jersey.
But that’s not why I like to drive by here.
There, on this unassuming street with unassuming homes, is an unassuming stone bust atop a column. The bust is of Alexander Hamilton. A plaque next to it commemorates the famous Alexander Hamilton–Aaron Burr duel that resulted in Hamilton’s death. The plaque also notes that Hamilton’s son Philip died on these same dueling grounds three years earlier. Even before this tale became well-known due to the musical, I loved to walk these grounds. I never understood why. I thought back then it was the skyline view, but of course, that wasn’t it. It was the ghosts. It was the blood. It was the death. Men came here to “defend their honor” and often died in the duels. Blood was spilled here, maybe right here, maybe right where you are enjoying a leisurely stroll along the boulevard and perchance happen upon this display.
But creepier still, behind the bust of Alexander Hamilton, almost hidden by the marble column, is a large brown-red boulder. An inscription carved into the Manhattan-facing side reads:
upon this stone rested
the head of the patriot
soldier, statesman, and
jurist alexander hamilton
after the duel with
aaron burr.
I was always drawn to that. Then again, who isn’t? The rock is enclosed by a jail-bar fence, but the separation between the bars is wide. It is easy to reach your hand through the bars and touch the rock. Think about that. You can place your hand on the very rock where, if you believe the legend, Alexander Hamilton lay mortally wounded more than two centuries ago.