Alec

I try the PI for the second time, my annoyance palpable and a hard ball lodged in my throat. It takes four rings for him to answer. I’m lucky he’s the most loyal and conniving bastard I know.

“George, it’s me,” I pause. “She’s gone.

My private investigator grunts on the other end. “I’m on it.”

There’s no elaboration needed or names given.

“I’m thinking she flew. The vehicle is supposedly in the garage unless she found out about the tracker.”

George is always available, never takes vacations, and seems to admire my work ethic and need to get rid of those in my way. He shares the same philosophy as I do, and he’s taking my secrets to the grave. For that reason alone, he’s indispensable and bankrolled.

A former military sergeant, a cop, and an ex-con, though that came later, he’d been the one who suggested a tracking device on her vehicle going so far as to order and install it himself.

Before I proposed to Levin, he had done a lengthy background check on her. I didn't want any surprises. She was a typical white trash girl who grew up with nothing—no parents, no money, no roots. She’d been a member of the cheerleading squad, track, dance, volunteered at a local women’s shelter, and worked waitressing jobs. In college, she graduated cum laude with a 3.85 GPA. Her desire to travel had led her on a journey to Europe to explore what the U.S.A. couldn’t offer.

The addresses piled up over the years. She’d lived all over—apartments, trailers, houses. The only physical house attached to her background was foreclosed on when she was seven, yet here she was running away from a life most could only dream of.

How could I have misjudged the situation so poorly? How could I have lost the upper hand? All control?

She’s going to pay for hurting my feelings. It’s the only solution, the only way to get my head above water again.

I fantasize about finding Levin, and it scares me how vivid the memory of Heidi’s death is. I picture my hands gripping her neck, squeezing, and letting myself lose control. I imagine Heidi’s face, the look of terror, her neck purple and mottled, but the eyes are Levin’s—green, shiny emeralds—that lose their luster as the air is sucked out by the arms controlling her last breath.

I realize I’m holding my breath. I let out a gentle gasp forcing myself to snap back to reality.

I head home after talking to George. I’ll let him take care of Levin. At least for now.

As expected, the Range Rover is in the garage. Parked in the same spot. It hasn’t moved.

My heart races as I walk through the empty house. Nothing seems so out of place that a stranger would notice, but I did. The missing clothes, jewelry, and her favorite fuzzy blue blanket.

What about the engagement ring? I punch a wall, the drywall giving way to a gaping hole. The imperfection makes me seethe. I pull my fist out and cradle it.

I need to calm down. I take a deep breath. Then another.

My comfort should have been the nursery, but even that room seems bare and uncaring. The neutral colors and gender-neutral palette do nothing to ease my tension.

Until something glimmers catching my eye.

To my chagrin, the light reflecting off the crib is her engagement rock nestled in the sheets.

Tearing through the house, I heave the quintessential books off of the glass coffee table in the living room and smash the decorative vase in the den.

I kick walls—a tantrum the understatement of the year. Scuff marks and scratches are now visible on the eggshell paint where I kick my Gucci loafers.

The baby’s room would have to have a new changing table as I use my fist to pummel the wood until it splinters. The dishes in the sink leftover from Levin’s absenteeism would have to be replaced, their bright colors now in broken bits on the travertine tile from where I drop them in a pile, the soothing noise of shattering glass a lullaby to my ears.

It is a relief Levin isn’t here to see me like this, though this was all her fault. 

“You fucking bitch.” I pound on the kitchen countertop. I don’t yell, but say it in a whisper glaring toward the pictures of us on the mantle. “Burn in hell.”

I smash a glass against the wall and watch it shatter like the façade of my life.

At that moment, if given the chance, I would have smashed her face in. I rip up a picture of her that is on the fridge. After tearing it into bits, I throw it in the garbage can.

I am done.

Finished.

The air deflates from my lungs as I crumble to the floor.

I don’t bother to clean up any of the mess I made. I’d call someone to remove the broken crib legs and the busted dishes, but they’ll ask what happened at the house, and I don’t want any questions or witnesses to my outburst.

I’ll say we had an intruder. The worst kind. Same difference.

What the hell was she thinking? How could she drop her engagement ring in the crib and take off without a backward glance?

I’m pensive, pulling at my tie like it’s causing me to lose my breath. I loosen it and think, does she know? I’ve made sure to watch her closely. Could she have found out about Eric? The thought fills me with dread, and I tug the tie until it unravels in my hand. What if she plans on going to the authorities before I can catch her?

* * *

When I make it to the client dinner at Bradshaw’s, my temper is in check. The house is now in shambles due to my frustration, but I have calmed down.

“Hi,” I say to the hostess dressed in a skimpy black dress that might as well be a negligee. “Party of three, reservation under Durant, Alec Durant.”

She smiles at me. “Yes, Mr. Durant. Glad to see you made it. However, Mr. Williams called, and he can’t make dinner.”

My smile freezes on my lips. The client called the steakhouse and not me to cancel?

“Did he happen to mention why?” I keep my tone level.

“No.” The hostess is already bored with this conversation anxious to tend to the next patron. “I can seat you at the table you reserved if you’d like.”

“No,” I say. “I’ll head to the bar.” I saunter over to the middle of the restaurant where the bar is situated and take a seat. Once there, I motion to the bartender. “Gin and tonic. Double.”

He nods as if he understands what it’s like to be the poor schmuck at the bar ordering multiple drinks and waiting on no one.

“Seventeen dollars.” He slides the drink over to me.

“I’ll start a tab.” I pull my black card out of my wallet.

“Let me know when you’re ready for the next round.” He takes the card. I might as well have handed him a tip jar filled with twenty dollar bills. My AMEX is the key to better treatment at most places. I wouldn’t be able to pay the fees if I didn’t get my money from Eric’s estate via Levin’s generosity. The money I deserved.

I sigh, the annoyance palpable on my face as my mouth settles into a hard line. I want to sit and cry, but I can’t. I feel dead inside, the way my ex-girlfriend felt when I strangled her to death. I don’t want to go back to that period in my life. I wring my hands on the bar taking a huge swig of my drink. I slam it down on the counter. Damn, this is not how I thought this night would go.

The bartender didn’t even wait for me to ask, he brought me another double. There was no conversation necessary, just the glass sliding across the smooth wood into my hand.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. Immediately, my mind goes to Levin. It’s not her. It’s my canceled dinner date, Mr. Roger Williams.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Roger says shrugging his shoulders. “I told them to tell you I was running late.”

My eyes are slits as I look back toward the hostess stand—that dumb bitch. I can’t get angry or let Roger see me lose my composure.

“Fifty bucks if you move,” I say to the woman beside me who is clearly waiting on a date that isn’t coming. She has been checking her phone and watch along with the clock in the bar for the last half hour. She glares at me but grabs her clutch and stands up, wavering on cheap, five-inch stilettos. I toss a crisp ‘Grant’ at her, the former president’s face stoic, a spitting image of my demeanor, and wave my hand at Roger.

Roger takes her place as she painfully exits the bar, one clomp after another like a Clydesdale horse, unsteady on her feet. He orders a whiskey sour and turns to me. “I thought you were bringing someone?” The question isn’t meant to conjure up hard feelings, but it does. I grip my glass and swallow. “Levin. My fiancée. Yeah, she’s not feeling well. I think she gave herself food poisoning.”

Roger’s eyes get wide. “Hopefully not trying to poison you.”

He’s joking, and I laugh.

“She’s not the best cook,” I say. “I tolerate it though because she’s hot.”

Now it is his turn to laugh—and he does— and though we make small talk for a few minutes, the conversation is stilted.

The hostess, realizing her fuck-up, comes over and offers us a prime table. We follow her to a booth—red leather and dark mahogany with dim lighting—in the back of the restaurant.

Our waitress comes over and offers us a cocktail. I don’t mean to shoot daggers her way, but she’s a dead ringer for Levin. Her brunette hair is long and shiny, and her green eyes stand out against her olive skin.

Roger’s droning on about politics and shit I could care less about—dead presidents and current presidents have no place in our discussion. I try to pay attention, but my mind keeps wandering to Levin—is she in bed with someone? My eyes narrow to slits, and Roger stops in the middle of a tirade on NAFTA.

“You okay, Alec?” His face shows concern, the wrinkles giving way to his overtly white veneers.

I shake my head.

“Yes, I’m just thinking of the points you’re making…” I drown my cocktail and continue, “because you bring up some valid concerns.”

I try and transition the conversation into business—our real estate development venture.

My worst fears are confirmed—Roger isn’t interested in negotiating a deal. If Levin had been here, she would have been the smooth conversationalist. She would have found talking points and commonalities. I notice a gold wedding band on his ring finger. She would have asked about his wife. I open my mouth to ask when the waitress comes over—the Levin lookalike. Un-fucking-believable.

Roger launches into his real estate concerns, but I’m done listening—my mind is on Levin again.

I glance at my phone. No missed calls. Not one.

I can’t handle any more of the run-around. I interrupt Roger, “I gotta go.” I lie, lifting my phone. “Levin needs me.”

Roger’s brows rise at my abruptness.

“She isn’t holding down any fluids. She says she feels weak,” I add. “I’m going to run her to the ER.”

Roger nods. “Oh, God, go. Be there for the better half. They’re always there for us.”

I settle up with the waitress as I walk by, and she quickly runs my card as I stare at her ass—dead ringer for Levin’s. The waitress introduces herself as ‘Kodi,’ guessing twenty-five years old, fake tits that are large enough to spill over her mandatory black bustier but small enough to question whether they’re real or not. Her small waist is attached to long legs and an ass that walks away like Levin’s, a slight sashay to her walk.

Of-fucking-course.

I make it to the corner bar and sit crooked on a rickety stool unsure if it can support the weight of my thoughts and me. My mind is on Levin and where she went. I flicker back and forth between today and the last few months pressing myself on any indicators she would leave.

The night passes as I watch the crowd around me fill the bar stools and then empty out, each face being replaced by another one. Some are happy, some lackadaisical, some boisterous, some arguing over the dumb shit couples argue over—babysitters and work issues.

I reach for my wallet, the leather sitting next to my ambitious third round at this particular juncture. As I put it back in my pocket, I realize the engagement ring is nestled in my other back pocket. I finger it through the thin fabric of my dress pants. The first thing I’m going to do when I see her again is put it back where it belongs. I clench and unclench my hand, the pricelessness of squeezing the last breath out of her ungrateful lips. The want is so bad I can taste it on my lips, and I bite down hard until I feel blood. I taste it, and it calms me, the bitterness a gentle reminder of how she’s going to pay for this.

There’s no way I can drive the Audi home. The bartender offers an Uber, but I prefer a cab tonight. I am not in the mood for incessant chattering or questions. A buff bodybuilder type in faded blue jeans and a V-neck tee is out front when I stumble through the doors of the restaurant, thumping into the glass with a loud bang. He looks in the rearview mirror as I manage to thrust the heavy metal door open and half-crawl, half jump inside.

He takes into account my bloodshot eyes and my disheveled appearance—my tie askew and my hair mussed from running my hands through it. There is no judgment, as caustic as it sounds, he’s used to my type—businessmen in bars, some celebrating, some deprecating right on the spot—taking them home to their families, to their mistresses, to their dealer’s house for another snort of cocaine.

I’m not unusual and because of that, not a threat. His dark eyes focus back on the street ahead. His hands grip the steering wheel, and he commences his conversation with whoever is on the other end of the phone. I am relieved.

At the driveway of my house, I pay him in cash and an extra twenty for his troubles. He is appreciative but stoic, a slight turn of his head the only indication he is grateful. It takes me a couple tries to get the key in the lock. It is times like these I wish I had my garage door opener with me. I enter the house, cold and uninviting, and I am reminded all over again of Levin and how she left, the broken furniture a remnant of my earlier feelings.

The closet hadn’t fared so well. It looks like a scorned lover—empty and desolate—the way I felt now that she left. It smells like her—the Chanel perfume she wears a lingering whiff in the large walk-in closet. Her clothing, shoes, and purses are all arranged according to their color. Jeans are folded on a shelf, same with her plain t-shirts and gym attire. I grab a Missoni scarf from the rack and smell it, burying my face in the zig-zag pattern of the fabric, the loss of her strangling me just like this scarf around her neck if I used it correctly.

I slide down to the carpeted floor wondering what Levin is doing at this very moment.

Halfheartedly, I toss a few pairs of shoes creating chaos in her orderly space, ruining the line-up of matched pairs. I’m about to chuck another shoe, this time, a tennis one, when I feel extra weight, something tucked in the front of the shoe.

I shake it. Levin’s phone slides back, the case, a picture of us—smiling, happy, newly engaged.

Biting my lip, I type in her passcode. It doesn’t work. Sighing, I try it again. Still incorrect.

Her passcode changed since yesterday. The location services were on all this time, a decoy so I would think she was home. I slam her phone down in my hand after trying a few guesses.

Her birthday.

Mine.

Eric’s.

This is a problem for George, he’ll have to break into her phone.

My mind wanders to tonight. She should’ve been at dinner. Instead, I come home to an empty house that seems all the more vacant, the missing items taunting me in their absence.

I toss and turn in our king bed that now feels enormous—empty—like my insides. The ones she ripped clear out.

To think we had almost nailed down a wedding date. 

She suggested a destination wedding since Eric was gone. I wanted a big, overblown wedding with a top-notch caterer, a videographer, a live band, and an impressive venue—something to show I was serious about this. About her. Us.

Her mind is made up, stubbornness rearing its ugly head as she’s adamant we follow her wishes. She hadn’t hired a wedding planner or taken on the responsibility. I should’ve known she was having second thoughts. I suppose I didn’t want to see it then and didn’t want to accept that something wasn’t going according to my plan.

I was frustrated then, wanting to get the show on the road. There was a need to breathe new life into my business. People love weddings—the celebration of two becoming one, the cake, the dancing, the vows.

The vows got me every time. 

Promise to have and to hold until death do us part. 

I would keep that vow despite the fact we’ve yet to say those words aloud. I figure they’re implied. She said ‘yes,’ didn’t she?

My mind goes into overdrive, a mental picture of us at our wedding.

Initially, a large but intimate wedding was the plan, at least for me. I had a lot of business associates and making them feel like one of the family was the goal. If they felt like part of my life and not just dollar signs, it would bode well for business.

Levin had been adamant she didn’t want that. I thought I would persevere and win. I always did, especially when I used money as the main objective or pointed out that her lavish lifestyle cost lots of money. 

She never asked for the things I gave her, but that didn’t matter.

I knew we could work through whatever problems she had. I just hoped it wasn’t about Eric.

She would see that this was a mistake—her leaving me—I would make sure of that. 

I fall into a restless sleep, tossing and turning.

My cell buzzes next to me on the nightstand. The digital numbers on the alarm clock say 3:00 a.m. I fumble as I reach for it. The caller ID says unknown.

It better be Levin.

“George.” The voice on the other end is gruff.

I say nothing, wallowing in the sound of his heavy breathing.

“Found her in Arizona. In a rental car. Impala,” George pauses. “She’s in a hotel tonight. A Super 8 in the South Phoenix area. Shady as fuck.”

“A Super 8?” I’m incredulous. The idea of her in a budget motel sleeping on the comforter, so she doesn’t have to get in the bed is almost asinine.

“Arizona,” I repeat it. Random. As far as I know, she doesn’t have ties there unless she’s fucking some Phoenician idiot. One of those men who brag about hiking and the mountain trails they can ride, all while carrying one hundred pounds of water and useless camping shit on their back.

George hangs up, promising he’ll email me the details.

I throw the phone down. Sleep is useless at this point.

Arizona. That might be the ideal spot for our wedding.

I get up tossing the covers off and stubbing my toe on the edge of the bed, but I feel nothing. I’m too distracted.

My phone chimes twice. George’s email and my flight itinerary.

The travel bag’s in the closet, and I throw some clothes and my toiletries in and zip it shut. I swallow some aspirin and Uber a ride to the airport.

Precious time has already been wasted, her phone a red herring.

I need her back with me.

After all, she’s mine.