Deadly Deception: A Dark Romance Page 2
An hour of driving around the neighborhood allows me the perfect opportunity to case the area and create a plan, in case I decide to take on this job. My mind isn’t made up yet. At least, that’s what I tell myself. In reality, I’ve decided to make the hit, but I can’t get sloppy. The itch that needs to be scratched requires careful planning.
I’ve never been good in refined spaces, let alone taken orders well. That’s why I decided not to make the service into a lifelong career. It’s another reason I declined the offer of joining the mafia when the family asked. Authority and I don’t mix. But I still got my honorable discharge, and I maintain close ties to the family, so I know how to color in the lines. I just don’t like it.
I grab dinner at a drive-thru and pay cash for the greasy burger and fries that will tide me over until I can make it home for real food. That’s the worst part of recon: the food. You are what you eat, and I am not a formerly frozen quarter-pound patty and fried taters. Grilled salmon and asparagus with a nice honey glaze is much more suitable to my palate. But I’m not a snob. Just someone who likes to feed his mind and body well.
It’s after dark when I decide to head back. The neighborhood is full of shadows—my preference. I park a couple of houses down, tucking the SUV between a truck and an old station wagon—I didn’t realize any of those had survived past the nineties—and lean the seat back.
Lights are on inside the two-story four-square. They’re probably eating dinner. I wonder what she made. Is the husband enjoying it? Does he appreciate her effort? Probably not. Usually, when a wife wants her husband dead, it’s either because they have a shit-ton of money she wants to get her greedy little hands on, or he’s a piece of shit who treats her like chewing gum on the bottom of his shoe. I already know which one I’m voting for.
It’s barely 9:00 PM when the Toyota backs out of the driveway. I hadn’t seen anyone leave, which clues me in to there being another frequently used entrance that I’ll need to make note of for later.
The car turns my way, and its head lamps beam me right in the eyes, putting dark spots in my vision. But I can still make out that the driver is male when he passes me. No passenger, which means the wife is still in the house.
“Late-night visit to the girlfriend?” I say to myself. Family men, or happily married men in general, tend to settle in for a good cuddle at the end of the day, not take off at the hour most eighteen- to twenty-somethings are just getting started.
I don’t have all the details yet, but the puzzle pieces are already falling into place.
It’s probably not a good idea to make judgments on people I don’t know, but when you’ve been doing what I have for as long as I have, you get feelings about people, a sixth sense, and it’s rarely wrong. Humans are creatures of habit, and they don’t usually flip the script.
The question is, should I follow this guy or contact the wife for more details? Either would be a good opportunity, and I choose the wife.
The phone rings twice, and then I’m listening to her gentle voice.
“Hello?”
“It’s late, and you have a deadline to meet. You need coffee,” I inform her. “There’s a little café down the street with an after-hours drive-thru. Order two coffees, one with however your husband takes his, and meet me under the bridge in ten minutes.”
“How did you get this number?”
“Ten minutes.”
I disconnect the call and start the engine, and then I’m exiting the street within moments. Asking questions isn’t on the list tonight. At least, not for her. The less she knows, the better for both of us.
That sixth sense of mine is tingling at the base of my skull as I park under the west end of the bridge and watch a tugboat pull a freighter down the river while I wait. I have a feeling this woman is going to be trouble.
I’m not sure she’ll have the nerve to show up, but exactly ten minutes later, she pulls up behind me, and when she climbs out of her car, I take a long look and know I was right.
Three
~Faith~
If this is the hitman, I’m in trouble. My God, he’s gorgeous. Tall, around six feet, dark-brown hair that’s just long enough to curl around his ears and is full of soft waves that immediately spark my envy, and a body that, although hidden beneath well-fitting black jeans and a navy cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, projects strength and vitality.
I’m momentarily struck stupid, standing with one foot inside the car and one out, staring at him. Until he clears his throat and I lift my gaze, falling into a pair of piercing black eyes that are filled with disapproval.
“Right on time, Mrs.…”
The reason I’m here hits me suddenly, and I feel the nervous energy that I’ve been attempting to repress all day return. Stepping fully out of the car, I close the door softly and stand there beside it, twisting my hands. “I, um, would rather not give my name.”
He nods. “That’s wise. However, we’ll need to call each other something. An alias. You can call me…Cal.”
Cal. This gets me wondering what his real name is. He looks like a Cal, I guess. I bite my lip, turning over different names in my mind and finding them all too common. “Brenda,” I finally settle on because we can’t stand here all night debating over names when we have real business to discuss.
Standing under a bridge is conspicuous as hell, and I’d die a thousand deaths if we got caught. It might be a brazen move, hiring someone to commit murder, but I’m hardly a seasoned pro. This is all new territory for me. I don’t know the first thing about any of this. Only that I don’t want to get caught.
Yeah, I should have given that more consideration before contacting this guy, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And I am, by the very definition, a desperate housewife.
“Okay, Brenda,” Cal starts, his feet carrying him closer. “Did you bring the coffee?”
“Yes,” I say eagerly, reaching for the driver’s door handle. “I’ll get it.”
“No. Let’s get in the car first. If anyone happens to come knocking, it’ll be easier to explain why we’re here if we’re together.”
I pause, wondering at his meaning before a picture of the two of us tangled in each other’s arms, his hand up my shirt and mine caught up in all of that luxurious hair enters my mind. I shiver with desire but quickly shake it off. I can’t think of him that way when what we’re here for is far from any kind of romance.
I climb back into the driver’s seat as Cal takes the passenger side, thinking to myself that the only reason I’m reacting so strongly to him is because of the acute lack of intimacy in my marriage. After all, if Glenn were a good husband, I wouldn’t feel a need to look at other men. Neither would I be compelled to end his miserable life.
I’m aware that the tables could be just as easily turned and the same be said of me, except I know that I’ve been a good wife, making the effort to be loyal and hardworking, always putting him above my own needs. To my own detriment. If I were to divorce Glenn, I would lose the house and everything that came with it. With no solid work history to speak of, I would be completely destitute, while he would walk away with all of the rewards and none of the problems.
I simply can’t allow it.
No, the insurance policy is my only reward, a payoff for the years I’ve spent suffering through his complete inadequacy, laziness, dishonesty, and betrayal. It’s time to cash in.
Cal helps himself to the coffee without the lipstick stain around the rim. Both are iced vanilla, as Glenn prefers his cold during the warmer months. I just prefer it over hot, in general, with no restrictions to climate changes. Cal’s expression doesn’t give anything away, but by the way he sips gingerly at it, I get the impression it isn’t his first choice in beverage.
“Brenda, let’s get one thing clear before we move any further.”
“Okay,” I say, all business. My nerves are shot, and I can’t fathom what will come out of his mouth next, making it all the worse.
Doing my best to maintain a calm exterior, I say confidently and with much finality, “I understand. I won’t be changing my mind.”
His gaze lingers on mine until he reaches a conclusion. “Okay, then let’s get down to business. Tell me about your husband.”
I spend the next half-hour laying out Glenn’s personality, our history together, and why I’ve reached the decision that I have, comforted by the seeming understanding—and possibly sympathy—reflecting back at me. We then spend another half-hour discussing routines—what side of the bed Glenn sleeps on, when he gets up in the morning to the time he goes to bed. No stone is left unturned, and by the time we’re done, both coffees are long gone, and I feel as if Cal knows more about my life than the priest at Sunday confession.
“Last chance to back out,” Cal offers with a smirk as if he already knows what my answer will be. He should. I just made a pretty solid case, if I do say so myself. Even he had muttered a few derogatory comments and issued a few pinched brows along the way. I’d venture a guess that Cal respects Glenn as much or less than I do, which was my goal. It’s nice to have at least one person on my side.
“I’m all in,” I assure him. “I’ll have my first payment ready by tomorrow morning.”
“Send it to the P.O. Box I told you about. You remember the number?”
“Perfectly.” As he’s opened one in my local post office, it will be simple to find. I have to wonder, though, if he lives nearby or if he opens a box for every customer for each case he takes on. It’s kind of scary, actually, to think about the type of man he really is beneath the handsome, cultured façade. I’m sitting next to a cold-blooded killer, under a bridge, in the middle of the night. Reality reaches up and slaps me again.
I’ve just made a deal with the devil.
Cal nods and opens his door, stepping out into a night that has cooled considerably. “The next time you hear from me, the job will be done.”
I don’t respond, because what is there to say really? Thanks? I appreciate all your hard work murdering my husband? Hope to see you again sometime?
God. For the first time, as I crank the engine and follow Cal’s SUV onto the road and part in opposite directions, I question if I’m a bad person or just someone who’s been pushed to the brink of sanity.
The drive home is at once the longest and shortest journey, bringing me home much too fast, while a part of me would rather be anywhere else but there.
Cal’s car is still gone when I pull in, which I expected, but it still stabs my heart to know where he’s spending his time. Since his confession, his declaration that I need to change or be discarded, he doesn’t bother hiding his misdeeds any longer. He’s shameless and uncaring of who he hurts. I remind myself of that as I let myself into the house and navigate my way to the upstairs master bedroom in the dark, hoping that if I leave the lights off, Glenn will trip and break something that’ll prove fatal so I don’t have to go through with any of this, and my conscience will be clear.
But when 12:30 AM rolls around, and I lie awake in bed listening to the sound of his car door slam and his keys jingle in the lock, I realize I’ll never be that lucky. And when Glenn enters the room and slides into his side of the bed, the smell of perfume clinging to him because he didn’t even have the decency to shower and pretend he was anywhere else but with her, I find myself glad that I reached out to Cal. He’s my ray of light in these dark times, promising me a future that I’d once only dreamed of. One free of the noose around my neck that is my husband.
I hope God isn’t watching right now. I’d hate for him to be disappointed in me, but at this point, I fear it’s unavoidable.
Within the week, Glenn will be dead, and I will have regained my freedom and the peace I’ve been longing for.
Four
~Faith~
“The eggs were a little dry, but breakfast was good, babe.” Glenn serves his backhanded compliment so casually. If I weren’t paying attention, I might not even notice that he just put down my cooking. He’s always been that way, though, quietly chipping away at my self-confidence.
I try to fake a smile and wifely warmth when he approaches from behind to give me a quick peck on the cheek. Ugh. I can’t even stand the sight of him, much less his touch. Everything about Glenn is repulsive to me now, right down to the way he breathes. That quiet little whistle as he inhales makes me stabby.
“I’ll be home late tonight,” Glenn tosses over his shoulder as he pulls on his blue windbreaker jacket and picks up his car keys from the hook by the door.
“I’ll keep dinner warm,” I say with a smile, casting him a brief look over my shoulder. He isn’t even paying attention, too busy texting. Instinctively, I know it’s her he’s messaging. That phone never leaves his hands. He even takes it to the bathroom.
I grit my teeth and clear the counter of dishes, willing him to get the hell out of here so I can make my run to the post office. The envelope stuffed with the cash I’ve skimmed from weekly grocery trips and my measly paycheck is calling to me, and I’m eager to deposit it and get this show on the road.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I stop and listen for the sound of his car pulling down the driveway and wait until the tinny rattling of the engine fades into the distance. Then I run upstairs and retrieve the envelope from my lingerie drawer, and in less than five minutes, I’m on my way to the post office.
This early, the parking lot is almost empty, save for two cars. The P.O. boxes are located at the opposite end of the building as the package drop-off counter, and I’m glad to find that the customers are there, leaving me with plenty of privacy.
Rows upon rows of numbered golden rectangles greet me, and after getting my bearings and figuring out the system, I locate Cal’s box and use the key he left for me to make my payment.
I feel like a criminal the instant I turn my back and return to my car. The feeling of being watched dogs me, but I know it’s just my conscience battering at my skull. It’s the only reason I know I’m still a good person; otherwise, I wouldn’t have one at all. Still, I won’t listen to it. I refuse to.
Telling myself this is a celebratory occasion, I pick up an iced coffee from Starbucks and treat myself to a donut from the local bakery on the way home. Six days. That’s how long I have left to wait. It feels like an eternity away, yet freedom from this life is at my fingertips.
I spend the rest of the day trying to act normal. Going about my routine is difficult, though, when murder is the only thing on my mind. I wish it were next Wednesday, what I’m officially dubbing D-Day.
“Am I doing the right thing?” I’m kneeling over the tub, talking to myself, while scrubbing at the ring of soap scum. There wouldn’t be so much if Glenn learned how to rinse the shower after he was done using it.
“Dammit, Glenn. Why can’t you do the simplest thing?”
It’s pathetic that I have to resort to having a conversation with myself because I have no one else to talk to. Except for God, whom I’ve prayed to numerous times. I worry He’ll strike me down for what I’m doing, but at this point, the reward outweighs the risk.
When I hear the phone ringing downstairs, I rinse my hands and dash to pick it up. “Hi, Mom,” I say, breathless and a bit huffy. For reasons I won’t go into, my mother and I have a strained relationship. Sometimes, I think she never liked me, and as a result, I’ve never learned to like her either.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
It’s always a bad time when she calls. “No, just cleaning before I get to work.” I’m a telemarketer. That in itself probably warrants a bolt of lightning as punishment, but every little bit helps, and I’ve got nothing better to do with my time since Glenn never wanted kids.
“Oh, okay. Well,
I was just calling to ask you if Glenn is coming for dinner tonight. Of course, you’re invited too. I’m just ordering pizza, but company sounded nice.”
My mother lives alone. The only man she ever claimed to love having died years ago in an accident—a case of wrong place at the wrong time. She’s not much for making friends or leaving the house too often, a trait I think she passed on to me. We’re loners, taking comfort in being alone more often than not. I despise that we share that much between us, and I’m determined to change that.
Anyway, she knows I hate pizza, and the invite rings as an afterthought. “Well, Glenn is going to be late coming home tonight, but I’ll ask him.”
“Sure, no problem. Just let me know.”
“I will.”
There’s a pause, and then she asks, “Is everything okay?”
As if she cares. I don’t know how to answer that, so I go with a lie since it looks like that’s something I’m going to have to get used to. “Everything’s fine, Mom.”
“You can always come hang out, even if Glenn can’t make it,” she offers, but it’s clear by her dull tone that she doesn’t really mean it. She’s making the offer simply because it’s what’s expected.
But I think maybe there’s something else in her voice, too, a hint of loneliness? I’ve never heard it before though, so I don’t know how to respond. I won’t be outright rude, but I don’t know how to be sympathetic. “Thanks, but no. I have a lot to do here. I can’t afford to take the time away right now.”
“Okay. Well, the offer stands if you change your mind. Take care of yourself.”
“You too, Mom.”
I hang up the phone, feeling drained. I wish my mother could have been like Glenn’s. Before she died, we used to get along like old friends. She was a total goofball who loved Van Damme movies, Diet Pepsi, anything Scottish, and eating ice cream.
I smile at the memory. She always used to make sure to keep butter pecan—my favorite—on hand, and we would share a big bowl of it, even though she’d spit out all the pecans because she hated them. She was the best mother-in-law a person could ask for.