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“Late-night visit to the girlfriend?” I say to myself. Family men, or happily married men in general, tend to settle in for a good cuddle at the end of the day, not take off at the hour most eighteen- to twenty-somethings are just getting started.
I don’t have all the details yet, but the puzzle pieces are already falling into place.
It’s probably not a good idea to make judgments on people I don’t know, but when you’ve been doing what I have for as long as I have, you get feelings about people, a sixth sense, and it’s rarely wrong. Humans are creatures of habit, and they don’t usually flip the script.
The question is, should I follow this guy or contact the wife for more details? Either would be a good opportunity, and I choose the wife.
The phone rings twice, and then I’m listening to her gentle voice.
“Hello?”
“It’s late, and you have a deadline to meet. You need coffee,” I inform her. “There’s a little café down the street with an after-hours drive-thru. Order two coffees, one with however your husband takes his, and meet me under the bridge in ten minutes.”
“How did you get this number?”
“Ten minutes.”
I disconnect the call and start the engine, and then I’m exiting the street within moments. Asking questions isn’t on the list tonight. At least, not for her. The less she knows, the better for both of us.
That sixth sense of mine is tingling at the base of my skull as I park under the west end of the bridge and watch a tugboat pull a freighter down the river while I wait. I have a feeling this woman is going to be trouble.
I’m not sure she’ll have the nerve to show up, but exactly ten minutes later, she pulls up behind me, and when she climbs out of her car, I take a long look and know I was right.
Three
~Faith~
If this is the hitman, I’m in trouble. My God, he’s gorgeous. Tall, around six feet, dark-brown hair that’s just long enough to curl around his ears and is full of soft waves that immediately spark my envy, and a body that, although hidden beneath well-fitting black jeans and a navy cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, projects strength and vitality.
I’m momentarily struck stupid, standing with one foot inside the car and one out, staring at him. Until he clears his throat and I lift my gaze, falling into a pair of piercing black eyes that are filled with disapproval.
“Right on time, Mrs.…”
The reason I’m here hits me suddenly, and I feel the nervous energy that I’ve been attempting to repress all day return. Stepping fully out of the car, I close the door softly and stand there beside it, twisting my hands. “I, um, would rather not give my name.”
He nods. “That’s wise. However, we’ll need to call each other something. An alias. You can call me…Cal.”
Cal. This gets me wondering what his real name is. He looks like a Cal, I guess. I bite my lip, turning over different names in my mind and finding them all too common. “Brenda,” I finally settle on because we can’t stand here all night debating over names when we have real business to discuss.
Standing under a bridge is conspicuous as hell, and I’d die a thousand deaths if we got caught. It might be a brazen move, hiring someone to commit murder, but I’m hardly a seasoned pro. This is all new territory for me. I don’t know the first thing about any of this. Only that I don’t want to get caught.
Yeah, I should have given that more consideration before contacting this guy, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And I am, by the very definition, a desperate housewife.
“Okay, Brenda,” Cal starts, his feet carrying him closer. “Did you bring the coffee?”
“Yes,” I say eagerly, reaching for the driver’s door handle. “I’ll get it.”
“No. Let’s get in the car first. If anyone happens to come knocking, it’ll be easier to explain why we’re here if we’re together.”
I pause, wondering at his meaning before a picture of the two of us tangled in each other’s arms, his hand up my shirt and mine caught up in all of that luxurious hair enters my mind. I shiver with desire but quickly shake it off. I can’t think of him that way when what we’re here for is far from any kind of romance.
I climb back into the driver’s seat as Cal takes the passenger side, thinking to myself that the only reason I’m reacting so strongly to him is because of the acute lack of intimacy in my marriage. After all, if Glenn were a good husband, I wouldn’t feel a need to look at other men. Neither would I be compelled to end his miserable life.
I’m aware that the tables could be just as easily turned and the same be said of me, except I know that I’ve been a good wife, making the effort to be loyal and hardworking, always putting him above my own needs. To my own detriment. If I were to divorce Glenn, I would lose the house and everything that came with it. With no solid work history to speak of, I would be completely destitute, while he would walk away with all of the rewards and none of the problems.
I simply can’t allow it.
No, the insurance policy is my only reward, a payoff for the years I’ve spent suffering through his complete inadequacy, laziness, dishonesty, and betrayal. It’s time to cash in.
