Page 77 of The Perfect Divorce

“Not in the car. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even lift my head... but earlier at the salon, I did. I only heard his voice in the car.”

“Are you sure it was Bob Miller?”

“It sounded like him. I just don’t understand why he would do this to me,” she cries.

I hang my head, knowing he had a reason to do this to me. I threatened to tell his wife about us. He told me it was a mistake, a onetime thing, that he was drunk, that I took advantage of him, that I was a whore and a thief. He wasn’t wrong. I did steal from him. I did take advantage of his inebriated state. I targeted him because I knew he had money and a wife. That’s my type. Being an event model doesn’t pay the bills, but fucking over other people sure does. It’s a risky business, and it’s landed me in legal trouble before, but I never thought it could land me six feet under—and at this point, that’s only if I’m lucky.

“I threatened to tell his wife about the affair if he didn’t pay me,” I confess.

“Like blackmail?”

“Yeah, exactly like blackmail,” I say.

“Did you tell her?” Carissa’s voice has a little bit of hope in it, like that could be our way out.

“No, I didn’t tell her.”

“So, he paid you?”

“No, he didn’t do that either. I never actually tell the wife.”

“What...? What are you talking about?”

“Bob’s not the first guy I threatened with the truth. He’s just the first guy that took matters into his own hands.”

I can hear Carissa’s panic set in again. Her breaths turn rapid and short as she tries to suck in huge gulps of air.

“Carissa.”

Her breathing becomes more labored as dread mixes together with uncontrollable sobs.

“We’re gonna be okay. Calm down,” I say, trying to relax her before she has a full-on panic attack or worse.

“No,” she cries out. “We’re not okay. We’re gonna die down here, and it’s all your fault, you fucking whore.”

I open my mouth to yell at her, to argue with her, to convince her we’ll be fine... but then I snap it closed. Because I think she might be right.

THIRTY-NINE

SHERIFF HUDSON

I rub my eyes to alleviate some of the strain that’s built up from staring at the computer screen while sitting in the dark. Lifting my arm to check the time, the face of my G-Shock reads 2:28 a.m. I can’t lie in bed, curled up under the blankets, getting a comfortable night’s sleep, when I know two women are missing and that there’s a killer on the loose.

I’ve been studying the footage from the hospital security cameras for over an hour now. I had our tech team splice together all the shots where the suspect appears on camera into one continuous video to save me time from jumping between camera files. Even with the more cohesive footage and the quality of it slightly amplified, the video tells me nothing. But there has to be at least one clue. In my gut, I know I’m missing something.

I’m about to start the footage over from the beginning again when I hear the door of my office creak open. Turning in my swivel chair, I find Pam standing in the doorframe dressed in a pair of my boxers and a white tee, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“It’s like three in the morning. What are you doing up?” she says. The second part she pushes through a yawn.

“Can’t sleep. So, I figured I’d review the footage from the hospital.”

“We already had half a dozen deputies review the tape nearly a hundred times. They found nothing.”

“I know. But maybe they missed something,” I say as I extend a hand to her, inviting her to join me.

Pam slowly shuffles across the room and takes my hand, letting me pull her into my lap. I rotate the two of us back in front of the monitor.

She moves the mouse and clicksPlay. The video starts again. “We’re never going to ID that guy. He’s in a surgeon’s gown, cap, and mask.” She points at the computer monitor, a tinge of whining mixed with frustration in her voice. “This isn’t some average Joe. This guy’s a professional. Maybe ex-military or police or even a hit man. But this definitely isn’t his first time killing someone and leaving without a trace.”

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