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Killing yourself is hard. Killing yourself and getting away with it is much harder. I don’t just mean swallowing some pills and making it look like an accident, although I’m sure the degree of difficulty there is high too. I mean really offing yourself and living to tell the tale. Not that you’d tell anyone, I imagine being upright and breathing would be enough. More than enough in my case. In fact, that’s rule number 4.

#4. Do not confess that you are really dead.

Still it’s a hard thing to do. You need a plan. A careful plan. You try to keep it all in your head and it gets twisted up. Little details fall through the cracks. You think you did something and you didn’t. Or maybe you did? It fills up your mind till it becomes an obsession. You start studying the tree bark instead of watching the trees. You start wondering about the knife brands an hilt degree instead of just getting yourself a nice sharp blade. You get obsessed, you start to make mistakes. You make mistakes you wind up in jail. Better to write it down. Get it out of your head. Examine it in black and white. So, two more rules.

#1. Don’t end up in jail.

#18. Make a plan and write it down.

Of course writing it down carries its own complications. Once you write it down you have to remember to burn it down later.

#19. Burn the list after your dead.

“More coffee sir?”

I hadn’t heard her approach. I put a palm over the paper cup and covered the notebook with my elbow. “No thanks. Two is enough for me today Kristen. I’m about done.”

“Okay Mr. Bell. Have a good one.”

“Thanks. You too.”

She moved on to the next guy in a similar suit and I felt the smile slip off my face and hit the floor. Have a good one. Like that was even possible. How the hell could someone be so chipper every day working some ball busting seven-to-four shift as a barista. What was she making? Twenty-five, maybe thirty thousand a year if she really hustled and flashed those pearly whites. Then again, what was she on the hook for? Rent in some cheap studio flat? Maybe she still lived with her parents. That was the rub. You could live on pennies a year if you weren’t responsible for a mortgage, a kid or two, looming college expenses, some car loans and the familial expectations of a vacation to someplace warm once a year.

 I shook my head. Kristen probably thought she was holding the short end of the stick, but I realized in that moment I would give almost anything to trade places with her. Downsize my life back into something singular and manageable. Start over and avoid the bear traps that had snapped closed and accumulated around my ankles over the years. All that stuff gets heavy. In every sense. In fact, I put that in the notebook too.

#104. Live with less stuff.

A bit wishy washy and not exactly on point with the rest of the plan, but screw it. It was all going to end up ash soon anyway.

I looked around the shop. This had to be the only Starbucks in the country, hell the world probably, with table side service. Not a bad idea really. Once the housing bubble burst and the financial services firms cratered, this little affluent hamlet was drowning in unemployed middle aged men with briefcases, collared shirts and scuffed loafers. Through word of mouth or some caveman instinct this Starbucks on the corner of West and Delahunt became a refugee camp of sorts. The men that used to queue up on the platform for the 7:05 local now piled into this coffeehouse like day laborers. Myself included. We monopolized the tables and the wi-fi from seven in the morning till deep into the afternoon. Management tried locking the bathroom and swapping out the comfortable chairs. It thinned the herd a little, but not much. We were hardened to such bureaucratic nitpicking. This place had become our oasis and we weren’t moving unless someone bombed us out. Or gave us a job, but frankly the bomb seemed more likely at this point.

 I mean, really, what was the alternative? Leaving the suit on the hanger and puttering around the house fixing leaky faucets or sweeping the stoop like a mothballed pensioner? No thanks. I’ll let my ass go numb in your lacquered chair and pretend to look for work. That’s all most of us are doing at this point. Pretending. Been almost a year since I’ve had anything more than the nibble of a perfunctory phone screen. Every guy sitting in here can quote the job listings on Monster or 100k or Craigslist. Still it was a place to go. The only place to go. Except insane. By now it was such a routine that it actually almost felt like an office. Phones ringing, keys clicking, gossip spreading. It had all the stage dressing of an office and we were more than willing to pay for an extra cup or two if they brought it around for the privilege of maintaining that mirage thank you very much.

I looked over my notes one more time then closed the notebook, put it into an envelope and slid the whole thing into the briefcase. I grabbed an abandoned sports section at the next table and checked the long range weather forecast on the back page. Snow by the weekend. It had to be soon. I could feel the foundation starting to crack. It wasn’t anything definitive, just a feeling, but I knew deep down in the pit of my stomach that if I let this one pass I might not get another chance. This thing was patched together with mud and spit, not concrete. One good push and everything crumbled down to dust.

Out in the parking lot, I turned the car over to let it warm up. The soft tones of the Berlitz instructor started conjugating Portuguese verbs. I listened for a minute but my head wasn’t in it. I was behind in the lessons, but now I had other pressing tasks on my to-do list. I turned the CD player off and took out my phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi hon. Hey I was thinking, do you want to come into the city today and grab lunch? My noon meeting just canceled.”

“Oh, thanks for thinking of me, but it’s my day to volunteer at the shelter, remember. Then I’ve got a late lunch with the girls.”

“Damn, I forgot. Ok, another time. See you tonight. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Ten minutes later I pulled the Highlander into the driveway. It wrapped around behind the three storey colonial house and settled in front of an oversized three car garage. The garage couldn’t be seen from the street.

I hadn’t forgotten it was Cheryl’s day at the Whitehall Animal Shelter or to guzzle wine and canapés and gossip with the girls, but sometimes she swapped shifts with other volunteers. Or one of her pseudo society friends had an existential crises over a blouse.

#6. Do not assume. Anything.

So I called.

The house was empty and for a minute, standing in the kitchen vestibule, I felt like an alien in a foreign land. Even though I had been out of work for fourteen months, no one else knew. I still got up every week day and left the house. Standing here now I had a swoop of vertigo and felt like a teenager cutting class and going AWOL off school grounds. The feeling faded as the refrigerator kicked on and the other sounds and smells of our house came back to me. I went upstairs and changed out of the suit into jeans and the flannel checked shirt I used to mow the lawn and rake leaves in the fall. I left my dress socks on inside my sneakers. A man in a suit at Home Depot would stand out too much, but I thought most people would overlook the socks.

#13. Be forgettable.

I put the suit inside a leftover dry cleaning bag and carried it and my wingtips back out to the car. I should have just packed something this morning, but the notebook was a plan not a crystal ball. Sometimes I had to go off script.

I drove past the Lowe’s closest to the house and hit the Home Depot three town’s over.

#32. Don’t shit where you eat.

I drove slowly through the parking lot. The morning rush of contractors was past and being a week day the parking lot was sparsely filled. I had two tasks. Neither that difficult, but both crucial and easy to screw up if you didn’t pay attention. I went inside. Garden tools was the second aisle to the left so I decided to start with the shovel. It’s easy to overlook the basic tools and the big box stores bombard you with so options it’s easier to just shrug and pick up the nearest one. I had written down the specs required for the job in the notebook and carefully considered each option as I moved down the aisle. I’m tall and let’s face it, getting older, so leaning over and digging into half-frozen earth could sideline me for days if done wrong. I’d learned this lesson the hard way.

I settled on the group of shovels with 48 inch handles, the longest in stock. Length done, I moved on to the handle. Steel would get too heavy. Aluminum or plastic wouldn’t hold up. I settled on hardwood ash with a long handled grip. Last, I considered the head. Steel was a no-brainer option for composition. On shape, I needed the round point to get through the sod and the inevitable rocks. I opted for the eight and half inch tempered steel with a forward facing step on top for the maximum shovel load. At $14.97 it was a bargain.

The first task done, I wandered up and down the aisles with the shovel cocked on my shoulder looking for item two. I came up empty on the first pass of the store and was considering lunch and coming back later when I spotted it in plumbing.

I walked past once to get a closer look. The guy was down on his knees looking at round toilet seat covers. I only caught a side profile but it was pretty good. I walked the length of the aisle and checked out the micro-drills on display in the end cap while the guy finished picking a toilet seat. When he stood up I gave him a quick once over and felt even better about the choice. A little slimmer through the hips and broader in the shoulders but nothing glaring. I glanced up and gave a wan smile. He gave me a distracted nod. Be forgettable. I watched him walk to the self checkout then followed.

More luck outside. The guy appeared to be heading straight home. I followed five cars back then narrowed the gap as he turned off the commercial strip and onto smaller state roads. Our two car caravan went through two townships and eleven miles before he pulled into a white and red ranch on a residential street a mile west of the water gap. I drove past and saw him climbing out of the driver’s side. I continued on and turned around in the cul de sac at the end of the street At the first gas station near his house, I took out the notebook and filled in the address, street number a few other physical details of the property. I also noted that make, model and license plate number of his car.

#8. Pay attention to detail.

That sketch was all I needed. I could fill in the rest over the Internet.

I used the gas station bathroom to change back into my suit, wrapped the folded work clothes in the dry cleaning plastic and stuck them underneath the spare in the trunk. Twenty five minutes later, I was back in my hometown. I stopped at the post office and checked my box for mail. Three slim envelopes and pink slip to pick up a package. I glanced over my shoulder. With the holidays less than two weeks away, the line was twelve people deep. There were two employees working the counter. One was Fred Armanson.

“Damn,” I muttered.

I didn’t have the stomach to glad hand Fred right now. Even if I were lucky enough to draw the other employee it didn’t guarantee Fred wouldn’t find my proximity an invitation to chat. I’d been doing his taxes for years and he took this as some kind of permit to discuss any and all kinds of personal shit with me. Including his health and irritable bowel. I felt low pounding start behind my left eye just thinking about it. I’d pick up the package later. I pulled the envelope with the notebook in it out of the briefcase and stuffed it into the box and shut the door giving it a little extra tug to make sure the lock had snicked into place.

Writing everything down is a good idea but comes with complications. Like a nosy teenage daughter and a wife with a penchant for indulging in gossip. I wasn’t about to leave the notebook at home for snooping adolescents or answer questions about why my briefcase was locked from Cheryl. It was worth the extra time to rent a PO Box and keep it there. Less conspicuous than a safety deposit box, easier access and almost as safe. Plus any sensitive paperwork that couldn’t be sent electronically could be sent there.

I read through the other pieces of mail. Simple notices and confirmations that things were taking shape. Innocuous on their own. I dropped them in the large garbage can on the way out. Five minutes later I pulled into our driveway. Cheryl wasn’t back yet. I put the shovel in the garage and took the clothes inside.  

“Josh is that you in there? What are you doing home?”

I closed the web browser and walked into the kitchen. Cheryl set a bag of groceries from Wegman’s down on the table.

“It’s me. Came home early.”

“Thought this was your busy time.”

“It is, just didn’t feel up for it today. I’ll make it up. Thought I might come home and surprise you.”

“Oh,” she gave me a look, “that’s nice.”

With a marriage as long as ours, so much communication goes on without words. I could feel her watching me picking at the spaces between the words. She sensed something was off. I didn’t come home early often and almost never in the winter as the practice used to really ramp up to a fever pitch as commercial tax deadlines approached.

I shifted the conversation away from these rocky shoals. “More groceries in the car?”

“Yes and get the mail.”

I carried the five remaining bags, including a Nordstrom’s bag that suspiciously didn’t look like it had groceries, into the house in two trips then went back out to the mailbox. Four envelopes and a glossy catalogue for Cornell University. I went through the envelopes standing by the mailbox. Credit card bill. Car insurance. Bank notice and one, a little thicker than the others, with my old company’s masthead on the envelope. That sent a flutter through my stomach. Would it all stop before it even started? This must have been what I sensed when I checked the weather earlier.

I walked back up the driveway with the wind knifing through my dress shirt. I dropped the Cornell catalogue on the kitchen table.

“Jenn considering Cornell?”

Cheryl looked over her shoulder as she loaded pre-cut vegetables into the crisper. “Yes, I think she mentioned it.”

“She mention any other ones?”

“Uh, RPI, St. Michael’s, Middlebury, maybe Brown.”

“Any state schools make the list?”

“Not sure. It’s still a pretty long list. She’s only a sophomore. Why?” I caught that look again, the little twin furrows between her eyebrows, and heard the deeper question in her inflection. What aren’t you telling me? Are we hurting for money?

I tried to put some wattage I didn’t feel into my smile. “No reason. She barely says four words to me each day. Just wondering how it’s going. And the SUNY schools are pretty good. Shouldn’t totally dismiss them.”

“As long as she keeps up her grades, she won’t need them.”

 I didn’t push it further. I carried the bills into the office.

I opened the three bills and looked at the ballooning balances. Besides the pre-existing balances, there was a small avalanche of charges for spa treatments, lunches, Saks, Nordstrom, Williams Sonoma. God knows why as she rarely cooked anything anymore that wasn’t heat and serve. I winced as a wave of acid broke across my stomach. To be fair, she had no idea the kind of hole we were staring into. One benefit of being a forensic accountant, at least in my case, is that Cheryl trusted me to handle all the bills and assorted household paperwork relating to finances, maintenance or insurance. The fact that we were clinging so tenuously to the house and the other trappings of this now unsupportable lifestyle was safely tucked away in these statements. Statements she never saw. I didn’t know how she would react if the credit card one day stopped being approved.  How, or even if, she could handle how seismically life would have had to change. It was really kinder all around this way.

I put the bills and envelopes through the shredder.

#81. Don’t skimp on the shredder.

I opened the last envelope.

The tone was clear from the start. I skimmed the rest to find out how much they knew. It was hard to glean from the mostly standard boilerplate. I guessed some, but not all of it. They were fishing. They certainly had a whiff of it, but if I moved quickly I could probably still recoup the majority.  Nobody in that office was good enough to follow me through the miniscule trail I was forced to leave. They requested my presence at the St. James street office on Tuesday at 9. They encouraged me to consult a lawyer. Yes, they definitely detected a stink on their soles. Enough to sweat me in meeting, but not enough to show up at the house with warrants and handcuffs. I shredded that too. I’d be officially missing, perhaps already declared dead, and thousands of miles away by Tuesday.

I heard Jenn come in and I stood up and walked back into the kitchen. Cheryl was assembling a salad to go with dinner. Jenn was standing in front of the open refrigerator with her iPod buds still in her ears.

“I stopped to drop-off that Netflix in the mail and almost ran into Fred at the post office.” I said.

“I don’t know why you are so allergic to small talk. It’s a miracle you got to where you are with your networking skills.”

“I’m all about the numbers. And it’s not just small talk with him. He thinks I’m his confessor or his shrink. Or worse, his GI doctor.”

“It’s not that bad. He’s just a lonely guy. Like you would be without Jenn and I.” She smiled. “Dolores has been dead for almost ten years now, you know.”

“I didn’t even mention his chronic halitosis.”

She hit me with a dish towel. “He’s a nice man.”

“In need of a tooth brush.” I pulled a bottle white wine from the small rack near the door to the dining room. “How about some wine with dinner?”

“Wine on a weeknight. Home early. You sure you’re feeling alright?”

“Maybe something else on a weeknight too.” I said.

“You wish.” She glanced at Jenn and swatted my arm. “But sure why not if the world’s ending. White, not red though. I’ve got a pedi in the morning and red makes my feet swell.”

I hefted the bottle. “You read my mind.”

Jenn shut the fridge door and started towards the stairs.

“Dinner in ten minutes.” Cheryl called after her.

She gave a wave.

“Does that mean she’s coming or not?”

Cheryl looked at me and gave a non-committal shrug. “You have to pick your battles.”

 “Does she have to literally tune us out with the music? Were we this bad?”

 “Just in different ways. Half of parenting is forgetting what you were like as a teenager.”

I set out two wine glasses and a water glass for Jenn in case she came back down.

After dinner I retreated to the office and did some research. Careful to wipe out the session and delete my history. I waited till they’d both been asleep for an hour before I went upstairs to check on them. I shook both their arms, first gently then harder. Neither of them stirred an inch. They were breathing slowly and deeply. The Temazepam I slipped into their drinks at dinner would keep them comatose till dawn.

Outside, the mid-December night was clear and sharp as glass. The air burned my nostrils and numbed my fingers. The moon was three quarters full and I could see clearly without any additional light. The detached garage sat in the southeast corner of our property abutting the shoulder high fence that separated our yard from Mrs. Phillip’s. The grassy area behind the garage was sheltered on three sides and, like the driveway, not visible from the street. Overhung by a large maple, it had always stymied any landscaping attempts. Shadowy and perpetually cool it was a useless parcel of blight on Cheryl’s otherwise lushly and obsessively manicured property. She had long given up coming back here and had even talked for a bit about getting a fence put up to spare anyone from gazing on the horror of crabgrass.

I was glad I’d finally found a use for it.

I peeked over the fence. Rule six again (don’t assume). Mrs. Phillip was a busy body but she was eighty-three and hibernated in her house from Thanksgiving till St. Patrick’s Day. No lights. With her hearing aids out she wouldn’t hear anything short of a jet plane landing in her foyer. The Foster place on the other side was foreclosed and had been empty since July. I rigged up a tarp between the branches of the maple and put a couple stakes in the ground as supports. I didn’t want to dig twice. If I put a little extra effort in now, I could undo the rigging and most of the dirt would slide right back into the hole.

I dug for four hours. I cleared a rectangle four feet long, three feet wide and almost four feet deep. The semi-frozen, rocky soil didn’t give up without a fight. Despite the work gloves I could feel blisters starting to prick my palms and felt a tightness in my lower back that portended later, more intense pain. It would have to do. I went inside and slept for two hours till the alarm woke me at six.

I stood under the shower nozzle longer than unusual and let the hot water work out the kinks in my back. I was pleasantly surprised I wasn’t more sore.

Downstairs both Jenn and Cheryl were yawning and almost asleep in their cereal bowls.

“C’mon guys up and at ‘em.”

“God, I’m so tired.” Jenn said.

“Me too. I can’t seem to shake it. That wine was not a good idea.” I didn’t ask her if she meant the liquid lunch or the two glasses she’d had with dinner.

“You’re losing your edge in your old age dear. I feel great.” And it was the truth. Now that things were in motion, I felt an energy and purposefulness I hadn’t felt in years.

“Ugh. God Dad, get out of here. Your chipperness is going to make me hurl.”

“Sorry babe, gotta agree with her. Just sign that card for my mother before you leave. I’m going to drop the rest of the cards in the mail today, but you know how she gets if we don’t all sign it personally.”

I signed the card and left with a spring in my step. I had my notebook in my lap and my first cup of joe in hand by seven thirty. I spent the morning catching up on my language lessons and confirming accounts and transfer instructions. In the early afternoon I returned the notebook to the box and shopped for a few final supplies. As the winter sky darkened I drove back to the neighborhood that I had followed my friend home to yesterday. I changed clothes at a different gas station (#49. Don’t be repetitive) then drove to the end of cul de sac and waited.

“Brian Brohm.”

I rolled the name around on my tongue. Not my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosers. I only needed it for a day or two. Just long enough to get clear of customs then I could pick one more to my liking and begin building up the credit history to make it legitimate.

I watched Brohm’s Accord pull into the driveway.

First though, I needed his body.

“Hi, sorry to disturb you. I’m Wayne from Edison Gas and Power. A couple of your neighbors,” I flapped an arm down the street, “reported a gas odor. We’re just coming through and checking everyone’s connections in the area. You mind if I take a quick peek at your furnace?”

Carry a clipboard and a hard hat and you can go almost anywhere. Jam a cocktail of common household cleaners into a neck and you can kill almost anyone. It’s pretty much that easy. Mr. Brohm took a couple framed prints off the wall, but quickly seized up and went down easy after that.

Watching him twitch in the hall, the phone rang and I jumped a little. I noticed my hands were shaking as I listened to Brohm’s answering machine switch on. A hang up. I pulled the syringe from his neck, put it in his front pocket then hustled outside.

A light snow had started falling outside. I backed my car into the driveway and had Brohm in the trunk less than five minutes after I knocked on his door. I hadn’t heard another car go past. I drove out of the neighborhood without passing anyone. I changed in a Wendy’s bathroom on the way home and threw the hard hat and clipboard in separate alley dumpsters.

Cheryl was in the living in room watching TV when I made it home. Jenn had already disappeared upstairs. The snow had started to pick up in earnest outside and drivers had slowed to a crawl on the secondary roads. So close to Canada you’d think people would know how to drive in the snow.

I was later than last night, but still early for my old salary man routine. If Cheryl noticed she didn’t say anything. She still looked a little listless and punch drunk from the drug.

“There’s a plate warming in the oven.” She said, not glancing up.

“Thanks.” I walked into the kitchen and pulled the chicken and broccoli pasta out of the oven. I had skipped lunch and until I saw the food hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I devoured the plate along with a large glass of milk.

“I’m putting the kettle on. You want some tea?” I called into the living room.

“Sure, that would be nice.”

I felt a twinge grinding up another pill, but I also couldn’t have her waking up to an empty bed and getting up to investigate. I stirred it up and let the tea seep for a couple minutes before I carried it out to her.

The adrenaline from the day must have worn off with the food and I dozed off in my office chair. I woke up with a start and glanced at the clock. Almost one. Still enough time. I stood up and shook my arms and legs awake. I chided myself for barely avoiding disaster. Now was not the time to literally fall asleep on the job. I checked on Jenn and Cheryl, both asleep, then went outside. It was overcast and still snowing.

First, I took Brohm’s body out of the trunk and propped it in the passenger seat of my car. Then I grabbed my shovel from the garage and went around to check on the hole. Still there and undisturbed other than an inch or two of snow. I judged I probably only had six inches to a foot left, but I didn’t want to rush it. I squared off the sides and was about to start digging when I felt a sharp pain in my buttock. I wrenched around and saw a hypodermic needle, my hypodermic needle, sticking out of my ass. Brohm lay facedown in the snow near my feet. He’d crawled from the garage. If he had been able to stand up and get me in the neck or chest, I’d probably be in worse shape. God knew what he filled it with. I started to think about all the shit in the garage that could kill me and then stopped. No point.

I felt a warm numbness start to spread through my legs. I tried to move towards Brohm and fell. I couldn’t feel my legs anymore and my fingertips were tingling. We both now lay face down in the snow. We made a T. He was the cross bar, I was the leg. I tried to see his face, but couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything except blink my eyes and was suddenly terrified of not even being able to do that.

My cheek went numb, either from the sludge in my veins or the cold, I didn’t know. I felt the flakes start to form a blanket over my body. I felt warm as it slowly covered me. I continued to blink. I lost track of time.

Later, a light came on like a supernova out of the dark. The snow continued to fall and the flakes made little starbursts of color as they passed through the cone of light. I heard movement and tried to shift my body to see, but anything outside my direct line of sight was impossible. I was still alive and conscious but locked in my body. A sneaker and part of a leg appeared. Cheryl. Thank god. Cheryl. I could explain. I could make her understand. I could spin a tale and convince her. I had always been able to convince her when I wanted.

“Help me.” I tried to say. I’m not sure what came out.

Something dropped out of the darkness and landed near my nose. Snow kicked up into my face. I tried to blink it away, but couldn’t. Cheryl was talking.

“I mailed the Christmas cards today. And damn, wouldn’t you know I was three stamps short. I hate when that happens but you can’t move Christmas, right? So I had to schlep inside and buy more. And you wanna know something Josh?”

The shroud of snow was melting off my face.

“You were right, Fred Armanson is kind of a sexist, boorish prude. But on the plus side, he does love his job. After I bought the stamps and was walking out, he asked me if I wanted the package and mail from the box.”

I blinked the drops clear and looked at my notebook.

“Imagine my surprised when he brought that out. Now imagine my surprise when I actually read it. Let me tell you it was a shock, even more of a shock than coming out here and finding my husband with a syringe in his ass with a dead guy.”

“Not dead.” I said.

“What’s that?”

“He’s not dead,” I tried again.

She leaned over and felt for a pulse at Brohm’s neck. “He’s as dead as any animal at the shelter. He might not have been all the way dead before, but trust me, he is now.”

“What are you going to do?” My throat felt so dry.

“I gotta tell you, you were probably right about me. What you wrote in here? Fascinating reading by the way.” She picked up the notebook and flipped to the first couple of pages. “Where was it? Right, here it is: ‘Cheryl won’t understand. She won’t want to change. She will blame me.’ I might not have blamed you, not totally, but I have grown to love this house and this neighborhood. I’ve got too much invested to lose it. To just walk away. Or move. Uproot my life. It would be humiliating. So I’m going to follow your plan. I’ve actually already started. I made some calls today and with your diligent notes and account numbers and passwords, I made some adjustments. As far as you and this fellow are concerned.” I heard her grunt and then watched Brohm slide by in front of me. “I think you are going to suddenly disappear.” Not quite as clean as what you had in mind. But not as risky either. Sure, I’ll have to wait seven years to get you declared dead, but Jenn and I will survive.” She grabbed my foot and pulled me with surprising ease in on top of Brohm. “I’ve got some skills. Some you might not even be aware of.”

I landed face up and watched her pick up my shovel. She looked at the rigged up tarp. “Jesus Josh you always did like to overcomplicate things.” She swung the shovel and knocked one support post out. Dirt tumbled into the hole and covered my feet. “But in this case, I think you actually had a good idea.” She swung the shovel again and the dirt cascaded down on top of me.

“By the way dear, you make a shitty cup of tea. Did you put the same thing in my wine?”

I couldn’t answer. The dirt filled my mouth and nose and tasted like rain and metal.

I heard her shoveling the remainder for awhile, but soon the dirt and snow muffled her movements and I was left to die alone. Almost alone. Brohm was in here with me. And something else.

Cheryl has always been impulsive. Couldn’t see past what was right in front her. Like grabbing things off a sale rack. If she had, she might have wondered why I was digging a hole in the first place. If she and I (or Brohm actually) were going to die in the fiery car crash as I planned, why did I need a hole. The notebook was pretty clear that I wasn’t going to kill Jenn. She would survive and inherit a trust I set up when she turned twenty one. Of course the trust was funded with illegal, embezzled funds from my asshole ex-employers, but she likely would never know that. So why the hole?

I wasn’t burying anything. I was digging it up. When I first started planning to fake my death and disappear, I knew I’d need cash in hand to make it happen. Having fat off shore accounts wouldn’t be enough. Not at the start. I’d need money to bribe, cajole and make people forget. So I carefully laundered 250 thousand off a few deserving clients and buried it in my backyard before getting pink slipped.

Right below my own body. Funny how that worked out.

#156. You can’t predict everything.