Page 85 of The Perfect Divorce

“Your foundation’s program doesn’t work unless I do.”

“That’s true.” I tilt my head. “But if the job’s not right, the job’s not right.”

“I’m the only one that can do it,” he says, mirroring my movement.

“You’re quite sure of yourself, Alejandro.”

“Is that a question?”

I give him a teasing smile. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

His large hand reaches up, grazing my cheek before it moves into my hair, pulling me into him. Our mouths crash together, and he nearly steals my breath. It’s fluid and happens so fast, as though he was envisioning it ever since he took a seat at this table. I wonder what other scenarios he’s played out in his mind.

FORTY-FIVE

SARAH MORGAN

Alejandro is inside of me, and I’m inside of him—tangled up in the honey-colored Egyptian cotton sheets Bob picked out. I remember his hand gliding across them after he’d put them on the bed. His smile was a mix of pride and passion, pleased that he was able to provide this luscious gift for us. He described them as pure perfection. I wonder if he would still describe them that way.

Alejandro leaves a trail of wetness down my neck as he licks and kisses every inch of my skin. We haven’t said a word since he picked me up off the kitchen table and carried me in here. By the time we reached the bedroom, we were both magically undressed. But he’s been undressed for me long before. He just didn’t know it. I was right about his tattoos. They continue everywhere, covering his hard pecs, abs, shoulders, and the sum of his wide, muscular back. I’ve learned things about him through the ink that’s been sewn into his skin. He’s religious... or at least he likes the iconography. One tattoo that claims he has no fears contradicts another, because it’s death that he’s afraid of, and that’s why images of skulls and crosses are prevalent throughout his colorful skin.

His lips find mine, and his kiss becomes aggressive, so I give it right back. My teeth sink into his flesh, and he moans, thrusting harder into me as though he wants to share the pain he feels. I gasp, releasing his lip. He squeezes my breast and flicks his finger against my erect nipple. It’s like he wants to ensure every part of me is paying attention to him. My hands go to his back, nails raking across it. His skin is wet, so I know I’ve drawn blood, but he doesn’t react. Maybe because he’s felt far worse in his life. He thrusts deeper and faster. I wrap my legs around his hips, drawing him in even more, so I can take the full length of him. Alejandro smiles and leans into me, separating the seams of my lips with his tongue. Mine ensnares his like barbed wire, slithering and coiling in a double helix of passion.

His body goes rigid, tensing up as he pants and grunts. I mirror his breathing, so he feels good about it too. When he finishes, every muscle of his relaxes, and he collapses on top of me, breathless. His damp skin sticks to mine, his lungs expanding and contracting, pressing up and down in unison with my own. His heart races, pulsating throughout his body. I can feel every beat. Does it beat for this moment or the next? Alejandro lifts his head and stares at me. That little black dot pressed into his iris is unmoved. He’s tired, maybe from the sex or maybe from life itself. But he wears no expression. Then I see something else. It’s fleeting, a sadness in his eyes before he rolls off, untethering our bodies.

Beside me he lies on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. Neither of us says a word; only our slow, decreasing pants of breath fill the silence. What’s there to say? How great it was? We both know that. How good it felt? We both know that too. I stretch my arms out over my head as Alejandro starts to peel himself from the mattress. Then I feel it, something hard and cold pressed into the side of my abdomen.

My gaze goes to him. The sadness in his eyes has returned, but it’s mixed with something else... shame... or maybe it’s grit. It looks the same when you’re doing the wrong thing for what you think is the right reason.

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” he says, pulling back the hammer of the gun.

FORTY-SIX

BOB MILLER

My phone vibrates. I mute the television and sit up in my hotel bed, staring at it. My heart rate immediately accelerates to a level I hadn’t anticipated. A light flashes on the side of it, indicating I have a message. I know what this text is supposed to be, what it’s supposed to say. Right now, I can live in limbo because I haven’t looked into the box yet to see if the cat is still breathing, but once I flip open that phone...

Alejandro’s questions race through my head:Is that really what you want? And you’re sure?The problem with Sarah is that there’s no stopping her, no changing her mind. Once you are in her crosshairs, you are as good as dead unless you intervene with drastic measures. I didn’t have a choice because she never gave me one. I just had the chance to strike first.

I flip the phone open and read the message on the screen.

It’s done.

I tap my fingers over the keys using T9 wording.

Send proof.

And then I wait. The seconds seem like hours, and I fear that I’ll pass out due to a buildup of anxiety from too much anticipation. Finally, an image slowly loads down the screen, row after row of pixels revealing the gory details of the act I put into motion. First, the pillows on our bed, then the hair, weaving its way down to the head. And then she appears. Sarah. Her lifeless face looking off to the side, blood smeared across it, still bright and fresh.

Tears begin to well in my eyes, pooling to a level the lids can no longer contain. I’m relieved she’s dead because the horror she was going to put me through would have been far more unbearable than what I’m feeling right now. What I’ve done doesn’t change the fact that I loved her. I’m staring at the image of my wife and the mother of my child dead—and I’m both elated and heartbroken. It’s like an old dog that’s gone senile and starts biting people out of confusion. Putting it down is the right thing to do, but still, it rips your heart out. Sarah needed to be put down.

I grab a tissue from the box on the nightstand and wipe the tears from my eyes. My phone vibrates again. Another message. I click it and another image loads. This time it’s not just her face, it’s her whole body, lying naked in our bed. Her limbs are twisted and splayed out. A large pool of blood has settled under and around her hips. My brow furrows. Why did she have to be naked for this? Then it hits me, and a rage starts to take over. I exit the message and call the only number in this phone.

It rings once before Alejandro answers with a “What?”

“Did you fuck my wife before you killed her?” I begin with a yell but quickly quiet down to an aggressively loud whisper, remembering that I have neighbors on either wall of my hotel room. I unmute the TV to cover the volume of my voice.

“I believe your direct quote was, ‘I don’t tell the mechanic how to fix my car.’ So don’t worry about it.”

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