AllFreeNovel
Share Us
bsp; Geoffrey Dunsmore is not a small man. My arms ache, my throat burns, breathing is shallow and comes rapidly.
When the tremors start, I cannot be sure whether they are his or mine, but eventually his body sputters like an old car running out of gas, and then the whole room goes still.
For a full minute, the girl stares at me before she moves to the far corner of the bed, covering herself, cowering in the corner like a frightened animal.
I climb over the corpse, search for his arm, his wrist tucked carefully under his giant belly. It takes some effort, but I manage to wriggle it free. Quickly, I remove his watch. The girl begins to cry, producing massive racking sobs. Only when I hold it up, does she pause. “A Rolex, of course,” I say, and then I smile, thinking Henry would be proud.
Chapter Twenty-Six
JC
It’s been a pretty rough twenty-four hours. First, I followed her to France, where I learned that not only does she have a penchant for sex clubs, she has a thing for old men. Disappointing, to say the least.
This is why you can’t leave people to their own vices.
This was apparent as I watched her in Paris, from a vantage point directly across the street. She wore a short blonde wig and heavy eye makeup covered by thick-rimmed glasses, making it obvious she didn’t want to be recognized.
The wig fell pleasantly around her face, and a heavy frown played across her face. She fidgeted often, alluding to a sense of nervousness that could only be explained by being in a foreign country, alone, at night.
She is the kind of woman who can’t bear to be on her own, something I find suitable to my tastes. This knowledge manifested as I watched her pick up a woman on the dance floor and take her back to her room. She’s full of surprises, this one. I wanted to be inside that hotel room, I wanted to see what she was like when she was undressed, when she made love, when she thought no one was looking.
I’d grown accustomed to this privilege, and there on that street corner in the cold and drizzle, I couldn’t help but feel cheated.
I waited a long while on that corner, standing in the dark, before I gave up. Fearing I might be noticed, I retreated to my room, stopping first at the front desk, where I paid the night attendant to text me if and when Charlotte left her room.
Women are so willing to sell other women out. She has no idea. This is why she needs me. This is why she needs to be careful. People will do almost anything for a buck.
I don’t know if I was surprised or not when the text came through. Watching her stroll along the banks of the Seine, I worried for her safety. She brought along her suitcase, which didn’t help her cause. She looked like a tourist. She was distracted, with her nose in her phone. I was concerned that she might have decided to head back early, but then she kicked the suitcase into the water, and I realized I had a lot more to worry about than being left behind.
What are you up to, Charlotte? I thought as I watched her enter that seedy club. Seeing her there, seeing her in that context, caused something in me to shift. She is a wife and a mother, but she is acting like a whore. I felt an anger building. Perhaps there was the sense of injustice, a level of disappointment I was coming to understand. Maybe she can’t be what I want her to be. Maybe she can’t be what anyone wants her to be.
All I know is, there is only one way to find out.
Can she sense that things are about to change—that life as she knows it hangs precariously in the balance? Can she feel my eyes on her? Does she have a sixth sense when it comes to monsters? Thinking about it makes me happy. Perversely, there is a part of me that hopes she does possess an extra sense for detecting evil. But I’ve been watching her for weeks; I know she is completely oblivious to my presence. Even when she is aware that I exist in the same space, she stays fixed in her own world, easily banishing me to its outskirts.
From France, she stewarded my return flight to Dallas, on which she spoke a total of eight words to me. She has to be the worst flight attendant in history. Of the three businessmen and me, everyone said it, at least once.
It’s hard to be good at your job when you’ve spent so much time on nefarious distractions. I’m worried about her. She looks sickly, her face gaunt and pale, truth be told. With heavy bags and dark circles under her eyes, it’s blatantly clear—the nightlife is not for her.
Once the passengers deplaned and we refueled, she was scheduled for my chartered flight to Anchorage. After a brief layover, and a change of crew, we set course for Alaska.
Now, it is just the two of us. Exactly as it should be.
You really have no idea what it takes to get her alone.
The pilots are with her too.
Although, they don’t count. They’re dead.
So, it’s just me up here in the cockpit. Me and a dispensary of half-empty pill bottles. Xanax, Valium, codeine, Adderall—pretty much anything you could want— I have it all lined up in a neat little row on top of the instrument panel.
Maybe it’s worth mentioning, I’m not usually this laid back. Second thing you should know, I don’t typically fly while under the influence, but this is what you could call a special circumstance.
Up here, where the air is thin, there’s just us trying to stay above the weather.
Well, at least one of us is trying.
The other one is all sad-eyed and what you could call emotional. Could be the zip ties. It’s not the first time I’ve been accused of taking things too far.
