The Divorcee Murder Club

Treinta Y Cinco ~ 35

               It’s not long after the door slams shut behind Celia that my phone buzzes. The time on the kitchen microwave clock says it’s a little past 1 AM, so I can’t imagine who is messaging me. 

Unless it’s Mindy.

The thought causes my stomach to plummet through my asshole. I broke our rule tonight. We promised to be exclusive, yet I gave in to Celia. The toxicity of our relationship clouded any rationale I usually have when it comes to her, and Mindy became out of sight, out of mind.

So, I set the empty vodka glass on the coffee table and grab my phone, but I don’t see a message from her. Instead, it’s from someone I didn’t expect. Furrowing my brows, a glacial cascade goes down my chest and into my boots as I read the message.

Evan: Call me ASAP. Chloe’s in trouble. 

Rushing to the door, I grab my keys, tug on my jacket, and leave like a bat out of hell.

For the entire drive, my stomach churns with anxiety as I think of the scenarios I might find when I get to Chloe’s apartment. My fingers grip the motorcycle handles so tightly that my leather gloves are on the verge of splitting at the knuckles.

When I pull up to her neighborhood, I park around the corner, then jog to the apartment, making sure no one sees me. Evan buzzes me in when I use the intercom, and Chloe is losing her shit in the background. Perhaps it’s the fear in her voice that has me skipping the elevator and jogging up the stairwell two steps at a time. 

Evan was vague about what was going on when I called him, but all it takes is for one of my friends to be in trouble, and I’ll come running. 

Literally. 

The corridor is quiet when I get to the fourth level, with dim wall scones lighting the way. Yet, it feels like a thousand eyes are watching, so I pull the hood of my sweater on. It’s so quiet in the hallway that when I rap my knuckles on the door, it echoes. To my surprise, Jackson pulls it open, causing me to nearly fall forward.

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaims and exhales a sigh of relief while stepping back. “I thought you were one of the neighbors.” 

“What’s going on?” I ask, but when I step into the apartment, the answers are right there on the floor, surrounded by a pool of blood. “Fuck.”

“Uh, huh.” Jackson closes the door and begins rubbing his shaved head. 

As the pad of his fingers moves back and forth, it sounds like sandpaper. And just like sandpaper, the scene before me is chafing my ass with all sorts of anxiety. The living room is dark, with only a floor lamp casting light across the hardwood and part of a man’s legs. I’ve never met Chloe’s ex, but I get the feeling I’m staring at Barry’s lifeless body. His eyes are still open and staring at the ceiling, but he’s definitely dead.

“What the fuck happened?” I glance from Evan to Chloe, pacing the living room with a cigarette between her trembling fingers.

“I…” she whispers and stops, her gaze meeting mine. The whites of her eyes are red, mascara is smudged on her bottom lids, and she looks as pale as a full moon. “I killed him. I killed Barry.” 

“Did you guys argue?”

“He came here drunk, and we argued because he has a new girlfriend, so I told him to fuck himself. I… I might have pushed him. Then he grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me into the wall. He was in my face, calling me a whore, and saying he wished he had never met me. He kept calling me a whore. So I grabbed that.” She points to a ceramic statue, which is now in pieces on the carpet. “And hit him across the head. Multiple times.”