Chapter 34
I was a person of plans. Always had been. I liked order. Refinement. Intellectual thought that put objects into motion. Controlled their outcome.
Molly had been my problem.
This paper, this setup: my solution.
Carefully crafted steps to ensure a positive outcome.
Lose Molly. Gain Lee. Carry on.
Winning would give me a sense of accomplishment. A righting of one wrong. But still, a bigger problem loomed. Once I had both of them, then what?
How would this story end?
The best-laid plans still deserved a purpose. I needed to find mine.
For now, this one seemed foolproof. I swiped a hand over the newspaper. Our false cover wrapped around thirty-two pages of legitimacy. I couldn’t tell the difference. They floated seamlessly. Our articles matched the inside pages, the paper weight, color, and consistency the same, the phone numbers and emails listed all sending Molly directly to Don. It was a work of art. I flipped through, flipped back. Ran my hands over the glaring photos that screamed sex. They made an impression all right. I took out a red Sharpie. Wrote WHORE in big red angry letters across the front. Set it down and looked at it from the angle Lee would. Perfect. He wouldn’t miss it. Then I grabbed my cell, snapping a picture of the writing and texting it to Don with instructions. Then I called him.
“It’s perfect. I just sent you a text with a touch to add.”
Don wasn’t confused. Knew what I was referring to. “Okay. You approve the copy?”
“It looks great. You got a guy to sit at her place?”
“Yep. And I’m on your boy. As soon as he heads her way I’ll have him put a paper in place.”
“I don’t know when he’ll go there. It might take a few days. Or even weeks. Just print a fresh paper each day with the correct date.”
“I know, you told me. We’ll stay on top of it.” His voice was calm, competent.
I released a bit of anxiety. “And call me when your investigators see him head that way. I want to be there.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Thanks.” I slid the paper into a paper bag, carefully closed it. Ended the call and walked to the pantry. Put the evidence of our deceit into the trash compactor, then headed to the shower.
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A week later, I watched Molly’s apartment, a Mediterranean-style orange townhome with window boxes full of hot pink hibiscus. His jeep sat there, a mud-spattered box of American masculinity in a sea of foreign cars. It’d been twenty-two minutes since he walked in, his hands dipped into jean pockets, his head down, steps walking without thought, as if he had walked the path a hundred times.
I tapped my nude nails against the gearshift. Closed my eyes briefly and let the air conditioner breeze wash over me. I had a massage scheduled in an hour, so this situation needed to resolve itself soon or I’d be late for my date with Roberta’s hands.
Movement, upper right apartment. Hers. A door flew open, Lee’s head moving quickly down the open hall, a blonde head close behind, tugging on his shirt, arms gesturing wildly. I could imagine the words flying out of her mouth. Lee, don’t go. Lee, it isn’t what you think! I wondered if the word ‘love’ left her mouth, if their relationship had progressed to that point.
He disappeared into the stairwell. I leaned forward, wished I had a drink, something to crack open and enjoy while my hard work came to fruition. This had to work; this had to happen. She couldn’t have him; he was mine.
His head bobbed between the cars, his face coming into view as he walked up to his jeep. Face set, features hard, a look I hadn’t seen on his face before but knew well. Resolute. Decisive. I clenched my hands in excitement, watching as her face came into view, blotchy and wide-eyed, her mouth moving rapidly, giant breasts heaving as she yelled something and grabbed at his shoulders. I wanted to roll my window down, just a peek, enough to hear this exchange, enough to savor this moment just a little bit longer.
That’s right. Turn and walk your pretty self away from this man. He will no longer touch your face. He will no longer make love to your body. He is mine. I will take your place.
I watched him get in, the door slamming hard enough to make her jump. And then, with the screech of tires—the best sound in the world, better than my fantasies—a sound of finality that left her standing in the empty parking spot, black mascara tears staining her cheeks, her scream loud enough to pass through my tinted windows.
Victory is mine. I grinned, giving myself a virtual high five, and put my Mercedes into drive. Pulling into the street, I headed south. Maybe after my massage I’d swing by Brant’s office. Drop off a sandwich for him. Plan a dinner to celebrate my victory with the other man in my life.
