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I force a smile. “Sounds like Sean.”
“Fine,” Adam replies. “I’m coming over.”
Fuck. This is bad. This is worse than bad. Sean has to die, and he has to die now.
I have so many questions. How long does it take a person to die if you cover their face with a pillow? How long does it take for a dead body to start smelling? What’s the best way to dispose of a corpse? How deep does a grave need to be? What’s the best way to get blood stains out of cement?
God, so many questions. Questions I can’t very well Google. I need answers, and somehow I don’t think Siri would be much help either. Quora, maybe? There are a lot of options. I can at least be grateful for that. I can’t imagine what they used to go through in the olden days.
Now, I can probably even log on to Instalook and ask in one of the hundreds of groups New Hope insisted I join. Maybe I’ll even get one of those conversation starter badges. My post will read, “Vanessa Bolton is in need of recommendations. Help! I don’t know what to do with my husband once I make him dead. But I can’t leave his rotting corpse in the cellar either, now can I?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Elliot
This place is relatively nice once they ease up on the drugs. It’s not the Ritz, but I have a private room with a bath, three gourmet meals a day, and plenty of time to plot my revenge. They can’t legally keep me here; however, to enforce my rights, I’d actually have to have access to a phone in which to call an attorney—an attorney who isn’t the one I have on retainer, one who didn’t place me in here to begin with. He wants the deal done, no matter the cost. He’s willing to work with and for whomever to see that it happens. This has always been Nathan’s M.O. which makes him a good businessman but a terrible friend, and a frightening opponent.
In addition, it would be helpful if I had parents not on board with institutionalizing me. I’d also have to have a wife who cares enough about my well-being to drop the charges she has against me, and so far that doesn’t seem to be the case.
On my third day here, Nathan comes to visit. True to form, he doesn't show up empty-handed. He brings along the contract he wants me to sign.
My disdain for Nathan is immediate. But I’m glad he’s come prepared. Why go search for something when you can get them to hand-deliver it to you? Conversely, I make sure he’s aware of my position on the matter has not changed. “I’m not signing anything.”
“It’s for the health of the company, Elliot.”
“The company is fine.”
“This was what we agreed upon.”
“What you’re doing is fucked up, don’t you think?”
“We’re businessmen, Elliot. We specialize in fucked up.”
He lets the idea rest in the air for a bit before making his next move. “It’s clear you can’t make decisions on your own—and if we need to go to court we will—however, I was hoping it wouldn't come to that.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t a compelling enough argument to make me change my mind, counsel.”
“You're sick, my friend. It's obvious to everyone. I’m just glad you're getting the help you need in here.”
“I’m not signing,” I repeat.
Nathan shakes his head. “Then you're not leaving any time soon either.”
You can only create. What you cannot do is control what happens to that creation when it hits the free market. Try as you might, it is impossible. I know this. It has nothing to do with why I’ve refused to sign the deal. I refuse to sign the deal for a variety of reasons, the main one being that I intend to defund my wife. The divorce will be finalized before anything else. Aside from reasonably supporting our child, I’ll be damned if she’ll ever see another penny of my earnings. Secondarily, according to the contract, the buyers will essentially own me. Only a fool would agree to terms like that.
When I awaken, there is a man seated in the chair opposite my bed. He introduces himself as Adam Morford.
“I’ve come to make sure you’re enjoying your stay.”
“Funny, you should ask,” I say, wiping the sleep from my eyes. “I’m not particularly.”
“Do you understand why you’re here?”
“I figure you’ve come to enlighten me.”
“A jokester,” Morford says. “I can appreciate that.”
He crosses one leg over the other. “Although I have to say, considering what I hear they have on you, if I were in your shoes, I’d cut the bullshit.”
