Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Thirty-six

Adam stares blankly at the picture of a handcuffed Lanie on his computer screen as the reporter gives details regarding the bail hearing set for tomorrow. He sips from a bottle of beer, some of the amber liquid dribbling onto his undershirt. With the brush of his hand, he wipes his chin then slams the bottle next to three empty bottles on the desk. The reporters argue whether bond will be an option for Ms. Hayes. Adam clicks out of the webpage and scoops the empty bottles into his arms.

As a bottle drops to the tile and shatters, I peek at the tabs left open. Adam has been searching travel websites. My attention seizes on the destination: Owen Roberts International Airport, the Cayman Islands. Tickets for two, leaving the day after Christmas, no return date, $2000 each.

Adam lets out an expletive and continues to the kitchen. One by one, the bottles clink into the recycling bin. He reaches for a broom and returns to clean up his mess.

As he sidesteps the shards, I stare dumbfoundedly at the screen. My, has he been busy on the Internet this evening. Tabs for a bank, an attorney, and Tibauld Industries' webpages have been opened. Unfortunately, the content of those pages is hidden by the enlarged page of the travel site. What I would give to have the ability to click the mouse, to see precisely what he has been up to.

Adam kneels to pick up the larger pieces of glass. He loses his balance, his palm landing on a shard. Blood pools in his hand as he drunkenly digs at the wound to remove the glass. He drops the bloodied piece onto the dustpan and steps toward the kitchen, kicking the shards throughout the room. By the time he reaches the cabinets, his hand leaves a bloody print on the paper toweling. There, he holds his hand against the towel until the bleeding stops.

The phone rings and he checks the caller ID, Tibauld. With a string of curse words, he waits for the ringing to stop. As the last of the shards are swept into the dustpan, a text comes through.

You'll go down first. Enjoy tomorrow.

The color drains from his face when he reads it, and for half a minute, his breathing stops. He seems almost paralyzed by the words on the phone. He breathes a deep breath that sucks up half the room's oxygen then powers off the phone and drops it onto the counter.

I follow him into his bedroom and watch as he strips down to his boxers. The mess Lanie made of his bed has been cleaned. He has a new comforter and a new pillow. Her teddy bear is in the trash, and I can't help but feel the bear's location is symbolic of their relationship. Thank goodness.

He slithers under the diamond-patterned comforter. As he drifts off to sleep, the occasional moan about Lanie interrupting his slumber, I stand beside the bed, watching, loathing him with every rise and fall of his chest.

Convinced he is out for the night, I go to his desk, search it. At the back of the top drawer, amongst the myriad pens and pencils is Margaret's check for fifty grand. "Void" is written across its crinkled face. It's dated the same day as her death.

After a few minutes pondering, I ghost myself to Palma D'Oro. I dip my head through John's door and ask if I may talk to him. He does not answer.

I enter the apartment to check if he's sleeping or in the shower, but he is not here. With no means of communicating my findings to him, I leave in frustration, trying to figure where he has gone.

His car is parked in its spot, so he must not be far. I search through Channelside. The bars are quiet, the movie theater is practically dead, and John is nowhere to be found.

Tony is seated in the courtyard, at the same table where Margaret sold my shoes. His lips are a straight line as he calls a number and holds the phone to his ear. But the call is short-lived. He hangs up, presses 'send' again, and repeats the process. After a few more attempts, he slides the phone into his pocket and heads into Howl.