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For now, the sky expands forever out in front of us. I’m on cloud nine. We have never been more together. Together, headed toward the Pacific, headed toward disaster, toward the end of our life stories, hers and mine, and I suppose all roads really do lead west.
For the record, I have never felt more fantastic.
At this speed and altitude, we have two, maybe three hours left. Which means I’ll have to make this quick. No one wants to die in the middle of their life story.
Earlier, as I carefully positioned the dead captain and copilot in their final, seated, upright positions, next to her, she demanded to know why I’m doing this. Believe me, I asked myself the same thing. It took a lot of work getting them into those seats.
In the end, it was worth the effort. It seemed like she had a l
ot to talk about, and I didn’t want her to be lonely.
Still, I didn’t answer her, at least not right away, because we both know why. When this thing crash-dives into the Pacific and breaks into a bazillion tiny bits of fiery jet, the black box will survive. Sooner or later, people will find it. So eventually I told her the truth: I’m recording this so our story will live on forever.
Chapter One
Charlotte
Three weeks earlier
The Uber driver drops me three blocks from my destination. Even though it’s a balmy twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit, I’m more than happy to walk the remainder of the way.
My phone chimes as I step off the curb, a reminder I’d better chuck it. Glancing at the screen, I see a notification asking me to leave a rating on my experience with the driver. Considering his incessant attempts at making small talk are half the reason I’m walking several blocks in five-inch heels, against the bitter cold, I have a few things to say.
I power the phone off, watching as it falls to the pavement, where I channel my frustration into smashing it into bits and pieces with my left foot. No point in shitting on a person’s livelihood because I’ve had a bad day.
Once I’ve buttoned my coat, I shuffle the broken phone toward the gutter with the toe of my black pump. One small kick and it’s a goner, and then I’m on my way. My mind is, as usual, already two steps ahead, welcoming the time to regroup. It’s imperative I’m in the right headspace for what I’m about to walk into.
There are three rules. More than that, but three main ones: Stay focused. Remain in character. Don’t get murdered.
Head down, I walk briskly toward my destination, my hands in my pockets, the rest of me shivering against the icy breeze, trying to keep the cold air at bay. Pushed back from the road, the house is conveniently situated at the end of a long drive, gated and hidden among trees, away from inquisitive eyes.
It’s dark now, but I don’t need daylight to know the expansive front lawn is well tended, that there are eight steps to the front door, or that the drive has recently been repaved.
Nor am I surprised to see the walk is well-lit or that the smaller yard up close to the house is littered with toys, tricycles, and various sporting equipment. My host has people for this, so my sense is he’s trying to send a message. He wants me to feel safe here. But I know better.
I know that would be a mistake.
It could be this—or it could be that he really doesn’t care one way or the other.
Maybe it’s a little of both.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
With the exception of a small bench, I know that the porch is empty. To the left of the bench are two pairs of gardening clogs—one adult size, one child size—and next to them, a potted rose bush and a bag of fresh soil.
As I pass the first camera, positioned appropriately along the walk, I smile. Watching is a fetish of his. There are others, but voyeurism makes him feel big and powerful. It makes him feel safe and in control. Funny, a security system, no matter how sophisticated, isn’t going to save him tonight.
My heels click purposefully against the porch steps as I make my way toward the front door. I see that the curtains have been left open, a flickering bluish glow emanating from the large front window. As I approach the entryway, I hear a pundit’s voice coming from the television inside. It’s late, but he’s expecting me, and I know he’ll have waited up.
I raise a gloved hand, take a solid breath, and allow my fist to rap against the door. I knock three times, the sound dampened by thick leather. Eventually, I hear footsteps, and the door opens. He leans out, holding the door half-closed to keep the cold out, and I have to admit he looks exactly as I pictured him. Handsome. Charming, even. Like someone I could fall in love with, if I didn’t know so much about him. If I were capable of such things.
He looks at me, partly confused, partly perturbed. The TV is louder now, one of those urgent, the sky is falling news reports playing on a seemingly endless loop. His eyes are tired, but he hasn’t changed out of his work attire. His tie is only slightly loosened. Slowly, he relaxes his grip on the door. “I didn’t think you were going to show.”
We stand there for a second, staring at each other. I’m thinking he’s a good lover. His kind usually are. There’s a hunger in his expression I recognize, one I know will tighten its grip unless satisfied.
After several beats, he opens the door wider, beckoning me in. I follow him into the foyer, which screams the usual look-at-me, look-how-much-money-I-have rhetoric, only with too much white space. I change my mind. I bet he’s selfish in the sack.
When I see that the living room isn’t much different, it’s practically confirmed. If given the opportunity to look around, I know what I’d find. Nine bedrooms, eleven bathrooms, three stories, with two boat slips down at the dock. Sure as shit, the rich know how to live: jewelry, guns, clothes, pills of all kinds, loads of money, and plenty of food. But that’s not what gets me off. It’s always their fetishes I find most interesting.
