Lighthouse Nights

15

the foundation of trevor’s plan (for it was a PLAN from the beginning) was woven effortlessly into a conversation over veggie pizza and beer. “did you see ashley today?” he asked. “bitch looked SICK.”

“her speech was sad,” jules replied. “think she was serious?”

“she won’t make it through step five; you could see it in her eyes. how does a girl like that carry a gucci backpack?”

“it was a present from her parents for six clean months.”

“cozy up to her; maybe she’ll put you in her will.”

“that’s sick.”

trevor folded his slice of pizza in half. “seriously jules, maybe you should have a chat with her after next week’s meeting. let her buy you coffee, pry a little, find out if she really wants to end her life. if she laughs it off, no harm done and you get a free cup of coffee.”

once the foundation was in place, jules began construction on the pretty gold arches of JUSTIFICATION. “she gonna do it,” she told trev after a convo with ashley. “no doubt in my mind.”

“i believe it.”

“most victims of suicide die alone. if i do this, i could be a source of comfort in her darkest hour.”

“i like that,” trevor said. “i think ashley would too. how’s she going to do it?”

“says she’ll use vodka and a cocktail of meds—”

“too much room for error. if somebody finds her, they’ll pump her stomach and label it a cry for help.”

“overdosing is horrendous if it doesn’t kill you. if they save her... she’ll need to start all over.”

“i know a veterinarian in seattle—”

“how the hell do you know a veterinarian in seattle?”

“college years, baby. this guy can get me pills that’ll stop a person’s heart before they can say ‘life sucks.’”

“if i could show her a good time beforehand; maybe find out what she likes, spend the day with her... then i think i’d like to do it.”

from the sexy arches of “good-intention,” trevor hung the logistical cables and painted them with the same shade of gold. “make sure she doesn’t mention you in the note, got it?”

“yep.”

“this is vital, jules. you got it?”

“i got it.”

“she needs to explain where her stuff went or the cops will suspect a robbery and therefor, a murder. come up with a large organization. someplace they won’t be able to search.”

“right.”

“get her to max out her debit card during the day. that’s where we’ll make the bulk of our profit.”

“if i can figure out her pin number, we could use her card to withdraw more later.”

“how exactly does a dead girl use an ATM? use your brain, julesie; the money needs to be transferred BEFORE she dies or they’ll think she was robbed.”

“i feel strange taking her stuff.”

“get over it. she’ll be dead. when it’s all over do you think she’ll give a damn about her porcelain doll collection? we’re providing a SERVICE. we help ashley with her needs, then we take some things in return. we’re building a relationship and a business, baby; eleven people had to die to build the golden gate bridge.”

last was the road itself; smooth pavement upon which only ten suicide pacts would travel. but those ten jobs were enough to crack her boyfriend’s plan; those ten jobs would cause their pretty little bridge to collapse.

a jostle in the tracks woke jules from her mental digression. she watched cornstalk mounds dip and rise outside the train’s window, but a pretty landscape couldn’t distract from the memories of the nine-and-a-half deaths in which she took part. she opened her backpack and removed her wallet; twenty-eight bucks after an amtrak ticket and a diet coke.

a winter of exorbitant gas prices drained their funds considerably. trevor, of course, still had several thousand dollars.

he could keep it.

jules scanned the contents of the misshapen bag. as a human being, she wondered, what am i worth?

the wallet wasn’t hers; it was craig’s. the money was stolen from blake.the designer backpack was ashley’s (as were the boots), and the plethora of brushes, polish, liner, gloss, concealers and diamond earrings were lifted from vanity drawers and a garden of broken moms. the weed in her pocket was darlene’s. so was the hoop in her nose. trevor paid and managed her cellphone bills (with thirty-six unread texts since last night).

the wig, however, was HERS.

though it was broken and probably stolen, the watch was hers too.

a wig. and a watch.

jules zipped away her life’s remains, then relaxed her shoulders and let the train’s gentle wobble rock her to sleep. 

an hour later she awoke to a mechanical voice above her head. there were only four words, but they provided the first glimmer of hope in ten restless months: “next stop, grand harbor.”