The Divorcee Murder Club

Siete ~ 7

            That night I return home with the squeaky door closing behind me.

At three AM, it's dark in this apartment, with streetlights shining through the blinds in stripes across the living room. The mustard-colored sectional takes up most of the space, with a rustic coffee table and a flat-screen TV in front of it. I try imagining Angie sitting on the cushions with legs propped and an ankle crossed over the other. Did she snoop through my things? And how did she get in?

The succulents sitting on the built-in bench in front of the window are undisturbed. Which means she didn't use the fire escape. But Angie is a clever woman—one with resources, so my eyes drift to the file still sitting on the dining table.

So, I walk over and snatch it.

If there's anyone who can get more information on Richie Reddy, it's probably her and I need to prepare myself for whatever plans this son-of-a-bitch has because I am not getting ambushed.

As tired as I am, I pour two fingers of rum from the minibar across the dining table. My apartment is small, with the kitchen and living room being one space, and a short hallway leading to where the magic happens. Yet, as I stand between the table and bar, the place feels huge. Or maybe it's loneliness echoing off these walls? I'm still not used to coming home to no one. Maybe I should get a dog?

The rum swirls around the glass, coating it in a temporary amber hue before bringing it to my lips, but I pause. Would anyone even care if something happened to me?

Shaking my head, I push the wallowing away because it's not like me to throw such a pity party—especially all by myself. So instead, I guzzle the booze and open the folder. Nothing will happen to me because I won't let it.

An hour passes and half the bottle of rum is somehow empty as I go through every detail Angie collected. From medical records to dinner date receipts. She didn't just do her homework, she slept with the fucking teacher for extra credit because damn, I've learned things about my ex I wish I hadn't. Like the salacious relationship she had with her father's colleague at seventeen years old. And the scandal it caused at his work, leading to her father's resignation after he filed statutory rape charges. What bothers me more, is that she never told me. Did she not trust me? Was I not a safe place for her to unload her secrets? Because she knows all of mine. I trusted her with them.

And trust is the most important thing to me.

When I get to the end of the folder, I find a note with the handwritten words, call me.

Ok, Angie. I'll call you.

The screen is out of focus as I search for her name on my phone and when I finally find it, it's under, Psycho Killer, Run Away. It rings twice before I hear her sleepy voice.

"Hey, handsome. It's about time you nut-up."

"Angie, I... Need your help."

"Yeah, and why should I help you?" Noises in the background suggest she's shifting in bed and I bet she wears lingerie that barely covers her skin. I slap my forehead because I still need to get laid and the sound of her voice is going straight to my Johnson. "What will you do for me in return, handsome?"

"I won't kill your ex, so don't even start with that psycho shit."

"Sure, ok, whatever you say, but one of these days you'll agree."

"No. I won't."

"Right," she purrs, sending my mind back to the bathroom at Bruno's, and I shiver. "So tell me, what can I help you with?"