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Mark wants me to level with him. He seeks control. He wants me to compromise my own. I refuse. People don’t compromise because it’s right; they compromise because it is easy. It’s safe. I refuse to show some pretend moral good that in essence only exists as weakness. Unlike me, most people in a negotiation are driven by fear or by the desire to avoid pain. Too few are driven by their actual goals.
I can hear Mark breathing. I can hear the wheels turning. “Yeah, you’re right. Sometimes it’s good to make an example out of a person.” He cackles like the unstable person he is. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
“At least this way my wife won’t get any ideas.” He exhales. “Beth never cared for her anyway.”
“Beth was right about her all along,” I offer as a concession. It’s not a lie. That’s why it works.
Mark hangs up. I step on the gas. Sure, I could leave her. I could let her answer for her mistakes. The only problem with that is eventually, everyone has to. And as the saying goes, the best way to ride a horse is in the direction in which it is going.
It’s pitch black out when I arrive, save for the lights that line the drive. I doubt Mark knows about the missing funds yet. Chances are, with my wife around, he has his hands full. That’s my play, if things get too bad. I have something he wants—his money—he has something I want—my wife.
“Speak of the devil,?
? he says, opening the door to greet me. I don’t even have to knock. I take in what I’ve walked into: the shiny metal glint of a gun tucked in his waistband.
I follow him into the great room. I’ve always liked the windows in this place. It helps that at night they look like mirrors. In the reflection, I can see my wife is seated in an armchair, one wrist cuffed to it.
“You realize she could just drag the chair,” I say to Mark. Clearly, he doesn’t know Melanie when she’s determined about something.
He shrugs. “It’s a heavy son of a bitch.”
Beth is seated on the couch opposite my wife. She doesn’t acknowledge me. She’s staring at her phone.
“Glad you could finally join us,” Melanie says to me, one eyebrow cocked. She doesn’t like how much I’ve been working recently. “If you’d come home sooner, you could have saved us both a trip out here. Although I’m sure yours was more comfortable.”
I glance at Mark. I should have assumed. “You put her in the trunk?”
“She was naked,” Beth answers.
This makes sense. I do not recognize her clothes.
Mark pulls me aside. “You say Melanie can’t swim…”
“That’s right.” When Mark wants to make a point, he enjoys taking the scenic route.
“In that case, I thought the lake would be an appropriate place to do the job. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Four friends go out on a boat. They take a moonlight swim. Only three come home…”
“There’s no moon,” I say.
“Details, my friend.”
I glance over my shoulder at my wife. “Devil’s always in the detail.”
She’s dressed in jeans that are too big for her, a navy striped boatneck tee and Sperrys. She has a red bandana tied around waterfall curls. “You look like Boating Barbie,” I say to her when we walk back into the great room. I hope she takes the hint.
She presses her lips together. “Always one to play the part.”
“I let her play around in my closet,” Beth mentions. “While we were waiting on you.” This doesn’t make any sense. If she wants Melanie dead, why would she let her play dress up? Beth glances at the time. “I don’t understand why you have a fast car if you insist on driving the speed limit.”
I guess this means we’re even. But I don’t owe Beth the dignity of an answer, so I don’t give one. After several moments, Mark clears his throat. Subtlety has never been his strong suit. “Speaking of speed—you haven’t seen the new boat, have you?”
I read his expression. He winks. He hasn’t told his wife what we’ve planned. She doesn’t know my wife has been brought here to die.
“No,” I say. “I haven’t.”
“You have to see it.”
