Page 87 of The Perfect Divorce

I look down at my watch and the reality of something as concrete as the time snaps me back to the plan at hand. As good as modern forensics are, the time-of-death proclamation still has a window in which it could have occurred, and we are within that window right now. So I need to be seen by as many people as possible, somewhere public. I change into something a little more formal and eye-catching before making my way down to the hotel bar.

“Good evening, sir,” the bartender says as I take a seat at the counter. “What can I get for you?”

He looks young, in his early thirties maybe, sporting a man-bun and a black leather butcher’s apron with tan straps.

“What do you recommend?” I ask.

I know exactly what I want, but I need to make conversation so he remembers me and, if questioned, can tell the police I was calm, conversational, and courteous.

“Depends, what are we thinking for base alcohol? Gin? Bourbon? Scotch? Vodka?”

“Bourbon.”

“Something sweet? Strong? Smoky? A mix?”

“Dealer’s choice, but not too sweet.”

“You got it,” he says with a small grin. He quickly drums his hands on the bar and turns away, off to mix up his concoction.

I turn and scan the hotel bar, which features a chandelier, moody lighting, oak-colored fixtures, and a dark-green-and-burgundy color palette. It’s meant to look elegant and refined, but a discerning eye will pick up that the chandelier is made of plastic, not crystal, and the oak color is merely a laminate over cheap particleboard. Many things in life can fool you into thinking they’re better than they actually are, if one doesn’t take the time to really look at things.

Unsurprisingly, the bar is fairly empty. It’s a weekday in a town that’s not known to draw tourists or businessmen. However, between the bartender, the few other heads in the restaurant, and the front desk staff that saw me walk in—not to mention the security camera in the lobby—my alibi will be airtight. I’m sure there’s a security camera somewhere in here too.

I pull out my personal phone and stare at the black screen, unable to turn it on. Letting out a deep sigh, I set it down on the bar. I know I need to delete some things on this phone as well, like the app I was using to track Sarah’s car, but my mind can’t stop thinking about that picture of her. I know I’ve done the right thing... for me. But it doesn’t make it any easier, and I wish my love for Sarah would have died along with her.

“Here you are,” the bartender says, placing before me a wooden board with a drink set on top and a glass dome enclosing it. Smoke dances around inside, masking the cocktail within. The bartender waits for me to give him my full attention. He wants to complete his show, so I’ll allow that indulgence. With a grand gesture, he removes the dome and invites me to waft in the smoke. It smells of rich applewood and hickory.

“I call it the Bull Run Mists,” he says with a grin.

I pick up the cocktail glass and bring it to my mouth, sipping it. The flavors explode, and my taste buds are taken on a sweet and smoky roller coaster.

“What do you think?” he asks, tossing a rag over his shoulder.

“It’s incredible.”

“Enjoy, and let me know if I can get you anything else.”

I smile, and I’m finally able to focus again, the alcohol coating the lining of my stomach, pulling me out of my daze. I pluck my phone from the counter and unlock it, going right to the tracking app I used to monitor Sarah. It’s the last thing remaining of my wife—her life, displayed as a web of routine in blue lines covering the screen. Work, school, store, home. Work, school, store, home. Repeat, repeat. It’s actually kind of pathetic when you see it like this.

I put my thumb on the bottom of the screen, ready to swipe up, close the app, and delete it—but then the map disappears, replaced by a spinning wheel with the wordLoadingunderneath it. I stopped checking the app sometime yesterday, so I suppose it hadn’t refreshed. When it reloads, it’s no different than what was just on-screen, except for one line. I take my thumb and index finger and touch it, spreading them to zoom in on the route. It runs south from our lake house, past Greenwich and the golf course, into the middle of nowhere. I click on it and the details pop up—noting it was traveled to earlier this afternoon.

“No way,” I say out loud, unable to contain my surprise.

“Pretty out-of-this-world drink, huh.” The bartender looks over to me, smirking as he polishes a glass.

“Yeah, unbelievable,” I reply, thankful that he provided me an excuse for my outburst.

Where were you going, Sarah?I pull my wallet out of my pocket, ready to throw my card down on the bar and go investigate the location she visited. But then I remember, I still can’t leave yet. The time-of-death window. I check my watch. I need to wait at least an hour.

“Actually, as soon as I’m done with this one, I’ll have another,” I call down the bar.

“You got it.”

FORTY-SEVEN

STACY HOWARD

My hands and fingers ache from gripping the gun. It’s outstretched, pointed at the stairs. The muscles in my arms have grown tired, quivering. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here with my back against the pole I’m chained to, legs spread out in front of me, looking down the sight of the revolver. Beads of sweat have gathered at my hairline, slithering down my forehead and the nape of my neck. I hear footsteps above me, heavy, like always. Tears instantly cascade from my eyes. My heart races as the adrenaline kicks in, slowing the whole world down.

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