“Funny,” I said, pulling out my gun. “Get in the fucking car.”
His bravado dissipated, and with shaky hands, he did as he was told. I slid into the passenger seat, pointing the gun across the console.
“You’re going to sign these divorce papers,” I said, brandishing the thick stack of papers. “Then you’re going to request a transfer to Idaho.”
I threw the papers into Terry’s lap.
He glanced at me, then at the papers, then back at me. “What the hell is this? IsSantagiving me a shakedown?”
God. Fucking. Dammit.
This was not how this went. Normally I put on my black mask. I would be suitably terrifying and intimidating. They’d shit their pants and sign the papers.
I didn’t even know the woman, and she’d managed to turn me into a goddamn idiot twice in one day.
I flexed my grip on the gun. “Yes.”
“I’m not signing these,” he stated.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. This was always the moment self-preservation briefly gave way to ego. Why violence was never good enough. They all followed the same fucking script.
“Yeah, you will,” I said. “How much did you skim from the church again, Terry?”
His eyes widened, and he sputtered. “I—I didn’t—it wasn’t like that?—”
“You sign the fucking papers,” I said, irritation starting to replace the boredom, “and you get the fuck out of Utah, or the church gets an anonymous email containing various dates and transactions.”
I couldn’t use the same tactics on these men as they did their wives. Violence was effective—to a point. When the bruises faded, so did the persuasion. But everyone had something to hide. Some kind of skeleton. My job put me in a unique positionto unearth those skeletons. I’d discovered Terry’s secret with just a few hours of digging through bank accounts and transactions.
Terry took the pen with a shaking hand to paper, pausing when he got to the bit about the assets, the house.
Tish didn’t want alimony or assets. All she’d asked for was for me to get Terry to sign the papers and leave. Still, I’d added the house and a clause where she’d get a nice lump sum equal to the full amount of what he’d embezzled.
Terry’s eyes grew. “I can’t.”
I pulled up my phone, showing him an email. “It’s scheduled to send in five minutes. Your choice.”
He glanced at the gun I had pointed, eyes narrowing. “You’re bluffing. What kind of thug dresses like Santa?”
I got out of the car, keeping the passenger door open so Terry couldn’t drive off, and walked to his side. As I opened his door, Terry grabbed the edge, trying to wrest control.
Fuckingmistake.
I slammed the door shut against his fingers.
He screamed. And screamed. Fucking loud. I exhaled and mentally went through my to-do list.I still needed to get groceries.Tried to remember the last time I’d spoken with my brother or sister.Did I water my plants today?
The screaming stopped, and I opened the door. Terry crumpled into himself, holding his hand in a pathetic whimper.
I nodded toward the stacks.
With a trembling hand, Terry signed.
“Good boy,” I said, grabbing the finished paperwork. “Try to get out of this”—I leaned inside the car until he shrank further away—“and I’ll find you.”
The best way to manipulate wasn’t through violence, but sometimes it was a great punctuation mark.
I let go of the door and Terry quickly shut it, driving off with the passenger door still open, leaving the smell of rubber behind. I stared at the empty road.
