Stockholm

Stockholm

(5,706 words)

"The trick is to go for the ugly ones," Zach revealed, one hand casually gripping his tall glass of beer, the other waving a cigarette aimlessly through the air.

Simon took a sip from his own glass. "What do you mean?"

Zach leaned across the beer-stained table clandestinely. The secrecy was more an instinctual reaction to the subject matter than a necessary precaution. They were sitting in the back corner of the bar and the only other soul in the room, the bartender, was too entranced by the football game playing on the television to pay them any attention.

"Think about it," he said in a low voice, "Say you've got a rich guy with a young, hot wife, right?"

Simon nodded, envisioning the scenario. He pictured a man: older, a little overweight, with wrinkles, and grey hair standing next to a young blonde woman wearing a red dress. They were smiling and waving at him.

"So, you take the hot wife and you gotta figure the husband's gonna realize it's a lot safer and easier to just move on to the next piece of ass instead of paying all this money for the current one."

"Okay..." The red dress woman in Simon's vision vanished replaced by two women in skimpy bathing suits.

"But if a rich guy has an ugly wife, then he must be keeping her around for some reason. And whatever that is he probably won't be able to find it in some thot he meets at a club. And you gotta figure that'll be worth some serious cash to him."

"I can see that," Simon agreed.

Zach smiled proudly taking a large swig of beer.

"That's where all these other guys go wrong," he was speaking louder. He started to gesture excitedly with his cigarette hand. "It's this culture, man. You know Americans are so programmed to think that the more beautiful something is the more it's worth. But the real treasures are the sentimental ones, right? It's your great-great grandmother's nasty-ass old teddy bear that you'll pay the big bucks to keep around, cause you can always go out and buy a new TV, or car, or whatever. But that toy? Irreplaceable. Priceless."

"Then why don't we take a nasty-ass teddy bear?"

Zach rolled his eyes. "Dude, it's a metaphor. You'd be sad over a teddy bear, sure. But you could move on, you could get over it. If you lost your fucking soulmate though? The one person in the world you couldn't live without? Hell yes, you'd pay two three mil to get them back."

"I don't think there's anyone I couldn't live without."

"Shit man," Zach sighed, "You don't have millions of dollars either. The point is not how sad your life is. The point is, take the ugly wives and you'll get your money. If you take the hot ones, then you'll just have a pretty corpse you gotta get rid of."

Simon nodded.

* * *

Simon waited anxiously, rolling the duct tape in his hands. The room was ready: empty but for a single chair in the center and a shade-less lamp, the windows covered by old newspapers. It was three minutes past five, hardly late enough to constitute "tardy," hardly late enough to start worrying. However, there was no room for reason in a situation this stressful and Simon's heart raced quicker with each tick of the second hand.

He went outside and started pacing across the front lawn, which was little more than a large patch of dirt with a few weeds. The sun was low in the sky but the air was still heavy with heat and humidity. The curls of Simon's brown hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty ringlets. He wished for breeze almost as much as he wished for them to get here already.

The safe house was a mostly finished building on an expanse of land destined to be a housing development before the company heading the project went belly up and the area became a hundred acres of skeleton structures and half-dug foundations.

Simon spotted the van turning onto the deserted road. He didn't even have it in him to let out a sigh of relief. Relief was something he wouldn't be able to afford until after. After this when he was a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars richer. The van parked behind the house so even if, for some strange reason, another person was compelled to drive down this pointless road, they would be unlikely to spot it.

Simon met his accomplices in the yard, opening the van's back doors while Miguel hopped out of the cab. Miguel was a short, bulky man, heavily tattooed, who still carried a kizlyar knife from his days as a low-level enforcer for the local bratva.

"It's hot as hell out here," he complained, wiping the sweat off his face with the cloth of his black tank top.

The third member of their group climbed ungracefully out of the back of the van, panting. "You didn't just ride around in a windowless metal box for an hour."

Larry's face and the bald spot on the back of his head were bright red from the heat. He stretched all of his six feet, six inches. "I tell you what, Zach is either stupid or fuckin' sadistic to let Miguel drive and stick me in the back. He knows I have RLS, he knows. It's genetic, I can't do anything about it. Anyway, I gotta piss like a mother fucker, you guys take care of the product."

Simon and Miguel turned their gaze to the product, lying unconscious, on the floor of the van.

"You grab her feet," Miguel instructed. "I'm sorry, 'the product's' feet."

The two men carried the product into the back room and sat her in the chair. They used the duct tape to keep her there.

"That's enough." Simon cut the last bit of duct tape and stepped back to look at their handiwork. The product was firmly secured to the chair, she wouldn't be going anywhere.

"Have fun," Miguel said sarcastically, "Let me know if you need a bathroom break." He closed the door behind him leaving Simon alone with the product.

* * *

The smell of grease and food poisoning wafted up from the Chinese restaurant below Zach's apartment. Simon had wanted to open the window since he got there, but found it broken, the pane painted to the sill. Fortunately, the meeting had been short. It made Zach nervous to have all four of them together. He kept looking out the broken window as he told them the plan, as if he could see anything through the dirty, tarnished glass.

Larry and Miguel had already left and Simon was just putting on his jacket when Zach stopped him.

"You're in charge of watching the product," he said.

"I know Zach you just told us--"

"This is important, Simon. You're my number two on this."

Simon nodded and looked longingly at the door. He hated how intense Zach could get when it came to the job.

"Leave the room as little as possible. After the client pays up, I'll call you on this phone." He pressed a burner phone into Simon's hand. "And if the client doesn't pay..." He slowly, carefully, dramatically, handed a pistol over to Simon.

Simon took the gun. He was starting to feel a little queasy, and his head ached. He had to get some fresh air. He didn't know how Zach could stand living in this stuffy, putrid room.

"You know why this is your job right?"

Simon closed his eyes tight, dutifully putting the phone in his pocket and the gun in his waistband. He shook his head.

"Because I trust you, man." Zach sounded almost choked up. "Look at me. I trust you more than anybody in this whole goddamn world."

He embraced Simon and gave him a hearty pat on the back. "It's gonna take a lot of work, dude, but one day we're gonna buy an island together, man. And we won't let anybody else on unless they got boobs or booze."

Simon liked the dream. It was a nice dream, simple and sunny and warm, and nothing like the cold hard metal digging into his back.

* * *

The unfinished walls were thin and Simon could hear Miguel and Larry chatting somewhere outside the room. He tried to make out what they were saying, but they weren't quite loud enough. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the island Zach had promised instead of his current reality of a stifling hot room and a product being held against her will.

"Who are you?"

Simon opened one eye then the other. The question had been quiet, the voice hoarse. He waited a minute or so before starting to think he had imagined it.

The product coughed and repeated louder, "Who are you?"

Simon wasn't sure what to do. He supposed it was unreasonable to assume the product would be unconscious the entire time.

"Don't worry. You'll be home soon," he mumbled.

The silent moments that followed were ripe with anticipation. Simon readied himself for a scream, some begging, a stream of obscenities. He wasn't expecting an apology.

"Sorry," the product said, "I'm Erica, who are you?"

Simon frowned. He couldn't see the product's expression; her head was hidden beneath a black hood. He thought there must be some sort of miscommunication happening.

"I can't really tell you that."

"You can do anything you decide to."

Simon walked to the other side of the room, his sneakers left footprints on the sawdust covered floor. "I don't make decisions here."

Erica shrugged, about the only gesture she could make with her wrists bound to the chair's arms. "You can make something up. Just give me a name to call you."

A million names passed through Simon's mind, he didn't know why he settled on, "Simon," he said.

"Okay, Simon, where are we?"

"Doesn't really matter."

"How long will we be here?"

Simon scratched the back of his head. This was his first kidnapping, but he didn't think civil conversations like this between perpetrator and victim were normal.

"Forty-eight hours. You'll be home soon." He smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring then remembered she couldn't see him.

"Well, if it's going to be that long can you take this hood off me, please? It's really uncomfortable under here."

"You don't want me to do that."

"Because if I see you, you have to kill me."

This was exactly the reason, but hearing it come out of Erica's mouth was unsettling. Simon shook his head. It was ridiculous to think of his own emotional comfort in this situation.

"Exactly," he confirmed.

"You're going to kill me anyway," she stated not quite as gravely as was called for.

"No, I'm not!" Simon snapped, he pursed his lips then repeated more calmly, "No, we won't."

"I don't know how much you're asking for, but my husband isn't going to pay it."

"Five hundred thousand. We did our research. Your husband can more than afford it."

Erica scoffed, "You must not have done much research. Liam wouldn't pay five dollars to get me back."

"Of course, he will."

"I think I know my husband a little better than you do. What makes you think he'll pay?"

Go for the ugly ones. He wondered what Erica looked like under the hood. She had a thin body, somewhat boxy. She was dressed casually in sweatpants and a Columbia t-shirt, the light blue fabric darkened by sweat stains.

"What makes you think he won't?" Simon retorted lamely.

The conversation died. Simon supposed there wasn't much else for it to do, considering the circumstances. He put his hand behind his back, feeling the outline of the gun through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

Erica spoke again, surprising him. "What about a blind fold then, Simon? I still won't be able to see, but I'll be able to breathe. Unless, of course, it's your plan to let me slowly suffocate in here."

Simon took his hand off the gun and clenched it in a fist. "You're not going to die."

"Blind fold then?"

Simon leaned his head against the wall. The heat really was oppressive; it must be ten times worse under the hood. He tried to think of a way Erica could use changing the hood to escape. He couldn't think of anything, but then again, he wasn't the mastermind. Zach would say no. Zach was about protocol, he was about sticking to the plan. He wouldn't care if there was no significant difference between a blindfold and a hood. It's the escape plan the captors don't see coming that succeeds.

"I'll think about it," he told Erica.

"Thank you, Simon."

Simon chewed on the inside of his cheek. He began to pace around the room. Not even an hour had passed and he was already antsy.

"So...you went to Columbia?" he shocked himself by asking. "You don't have to answer that."

"Yeah, I did. English major. That's actually where I met Liam. In a poetry class of all places." She laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Here's a lesson for you, Simon," Erica said, "Next time you're doing research for a kidnapping, look at more than bank account balances. I met Liam in college when he was going through a rebellious, artsy phase. He was going to be a poet to piss off his dad. He married me to piss off his dad too."

"Why wouldn't his dad like you?"

"I didn't exactly bring a whole lot to the table. And with no pre-nup I'd take a lot away with me if I left. A couple years later, when Liam realized poetry doesn't pay for fancy cars and vacation houses, he decided to trade his black turtlenecks for designer suits and take the VP position at his father's company. But you probably knew that, at least. That is why he has five hundred thousand dollars he could spend to get his wife back. But he won't."

"He will."

"The least you could do after taking me against my will is not argue with me." Erica laughed again. Simon thought it was a nice sound, if a little out of place in this situation.

"I tell you what, after this is all over, you get a free pass for the next argument," Simon offered.

"This has got to be the weirdest conversation between taken and taker that ever took place," she said with yet another giggle.

Now Simon chuckled. "My thoughts exactly."

The conversation continued to flow smoothly. Even the long lengths of silence weren't uncomfortable. So, when Miguel opened the door and stepped into the room Simon was surprised to find several hours had gone by.

He muttered quietly into Simon's ear, "There's some food out there, Larry's taking a nap. I can cover the hostage--'the product'--for a while."

Simon looked at Erica, she was still and silent. He wondered if she would talk to Miguel too. Wondered why the thought created a knot in his stomach.

"Okay, I'll be back soon as I can," he said perhaps a little too loudly, wanting to make sure Erica knew he was leaving.

As he closed the door, Miguel took out his knife and began throwing it at the wall.

* * *

The night before, Simon couldn't sleep. A heat wave had rolled into Charleston and, of course, his air conditioning was broken. Simon sat on his couch with a glass of ice and flipped through channels on his television. There wasn't anything on this late beside infomercials and reruns of old sitcoms. Simon wasn't in the mood for cheesy jokes, so he turned off the set and walked to his window. A few cars drove by, but mostly the street was empty.

He turned the latch and started to push the window open. Something glinted in the reflection making him jump. He stopped so the window was only slightly ajar. He stared into the reflection trying to figure out what was shining in the slightest bit of light in the dark. It took him far too long to remember the gun, and his mouth went dry when he finally did. He popped another ice cube into his mouth, letting his gaze focus instead on his own pasty reflection. The ice made his usually narrow cheeks bulge. The glass did not act as a perfect mirror. The white skin of his bare chest was nearly opaque, but when he tried to look into his own dark eyes, he could only see through the window to the empty street below.

* * *

The back of the chair Simon sat in while he ate pressed the gun uncomfortably into his spine. He finished the food quickly, grabbed a water bottle and a pair of scissors and hurried back to the room.

Miguel was prying his knife out of the wall when Simon entered.

"Good, you're back." He started toward the door. "Watch dog duty is fucking boring."

Perhaps prompted by the sound of the door closing Erica said, "Nice to see you again, Simon. I use see figuratively, of course."

"We don't have a blind fold and I can't leave to get one."

"Maybe it's not nice to not see you again." He could hear the pout in her voice.

Simon put the water bottle on the floor next to the chair and stood behind Erica.

"I have an idea, though," he told her.

"What's your idea?"

Simon open and closed the scissors. "The thing is I'll have to take the hood off, and it'll be a minute before I can re-cover your eyes. You have to promise me you won't look back here."

"He's not going to pay. You're going to have to kill me anyway."

"Erica, please. Just don't look back here. Please, for me." Simon regretted the words as soon as he spoke them; he couldn't count the number of ways it was inappropriate for him to ask Erica to do anything.

In a low voice Erica said, "Alright, Simon. I promise."

Simon took a deep breath and grabbed the top of the hood. He took a moment to try and convince himself it was a bad idea. But he'd never been particularly persuasive, so in one decisive motion he pulled the hood off Erica's head. He froze, waiting for her head to tilt back to look up at him, sealing his fate as a murderer. But her head didn't budge an inch.

Quickly Simon set to work cutting the hood into a long strip. The inside of the hood was wet from sweat and the moisture of her breath. He felt guilty for having kept her under there so long. When he finished, he gently wrapped the newly fashioned blind fold around Erica's head, carefully tying it in the back. He tried not to pull any of her dark brown hair, which was matted and messy from hours under the hood.

He asked, "Can you see anything?"

"Not a thing," Erica replied.

He reiterated, "It's really important that you can't see anything."

"I told you I can't see anything. Don't call me a liar; you're the criminal." She said it teasingly.

"You're right, I'm sorry."

Simon knew the smart move would be to stay behind her, where he could be absolutely certain she couldn't see him. But he couldn't see her either. Most of her face would be visible now, and he was so curious. He couldn't imagine what five hundred thousand dollars' worth of ugly looked like. He crept around to the front of the chair, moving slowly, cautiously.

Right away he knew why Zach had targeted this wife. A dark purple birth mark climbed its way up Erica's neck, hitting her jaw and splashing out in little purple flecks that peppered the entire left side of her face. The rest of her features were normal enough, her lips were even beautiful to a remarkable degree. But no one could resist staring at that purple birthmark.

He forced himself to look away, picking up the water bottle and opening it.

"I brought you some water," he said, kneeling down in front of her.

He pressed the bottle to her lips and tilted it so she could drink. Some dribbled down her chin, but she didn't seem to mind. Simon wondered if this was how people felt when feeding babies, a rush of pride, an increased sense of self-worth for bringing nourishment to someone who couldn't get it on their own. He watched the muscles in her neck move with each gulp. He wondered--

The phone rang, a high-pitched screech that rocketed through his body, he jumped splashing water all over Erica's face.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he repeated while scrambling to put the bottle down and answer the phone.

"The client wants proof of life," Zach said briskly, "I'm going to call back in two minutes. Put the phone up to her and have her say that she's fine and make sure she begs for her life. Make sure it sounds good. Don't let them talk for more than twenty seconds."

"Got it."

Zach hung up.

"Oh, don't apologize, Simon," Erica said, sticking her tongue out to lick up the water on her chin. "It feels nice."

"Your husband wants proof of life."

She snorted. "Why?"

Simon tried to suppress the building irritation he felt, "So he can know that you're still alive."

"He's going to be disappointed."

"Erica, please!" Simon took a second to calm himself. "I need you to tell him that you're okay. Just tell him you're okay. But make sure he knows you won't be...if he doesn't pay."

"Which he won't," she stated.

"Please, Erica, please."

"Well, since you asked so nicely..."

The phone rang again. Simon pressed the talk button then held the speaker to Erica's ear.

After a second, she began to cry hysterically, "Liam! Liam! They have me tied up I don't know where I am, but they--they're going to kill me! Liam, please, please! Pay them!"

Simon took the phone away and hung up.

"That's the first reasonable thing I've heard you say all day," he joked.

"I didn't want you trying to use my bad acting as an excuse when he doesn't pay."

Simon's back was sticky with sweat where the gun pressed against it. "He'll pay, I promise."

Simon saw the corners of Erica's mouth turn down, she sucked her bottom lip in and began to chew it. She couldn't hide behind the hood anymore. He could see that maybe she wasn't quite as brazen as she acted.

"It's not fair, Simon," Erica said, a few minutes later. "You can see me, but I can't see you."

"Out of everything happening to you right now, you think that's unfair?" Simon asked, not sure if he was amused or just bewildered.

"It is unfair."

"Don't feel bad, you're not missing much."

"Oh, come on, Simon. You don't sound that bad." Erica gave a crooked grin. "Describe yourself to me. You can make it all up, I won't know the difference."

"I'm not that creative."

"You know you're really frustrating, right?" Erica tilted her head. "I bet people tell you that all the time."

They did. "They don't," he replied, "Why don't you describe me."

"What?"

"You're the English major, you describe me. What do you think I look like?" Simon shifted so he was sitting cross-legged.

"If I knew we were going to play this game I would have asked you to describe me before you took the hood off."

She thought a moment. "I think you're tall, not unusually so, just tall enough, so I could wear heels and still be shorter. And I think you're thin, reedy, with no muscle tone."

He huffed. "Why do you think that?"

"If you want a better description, you could do it yourself," she countered.

Simon swallowed his pride. "Okay, go on."

"You have really dark hair, maybe it's black, and a really bad haircut. No, it's not even a haircut, it's just the way your hair grew. Your nose is too big and you have a lip ring. No, an eyebrow piercing."

"It has to be one or the other?"

"It doesn't have to be, it just is. You have an eyebrow piercing, and half a prison tattoo."

"Half?"

Erica nodded. "Yeah, you chickened out halfway through. It's kind of sad really. The opposite of badass."

"Goodass?" he quipped.

"Yeah, you got that."

Simon couldn't help but grin. "I can't wait to see the picture you describe to the sketch artist."

"You're not even going to tell me if I'm right or not?" she asked.

"Of course not, what would be the point of that?"

"You're killing me here, Simon, and I thought I still had a few more hours." It was a joke but it hit him like a punch to the gut. The undeserved mirth Simon had been feeling quickly evaporated.

He mumbled, "I'm not going to kill you. Your husband's going to pay."

Erica set her jaw. "You know I'm never going to believe that. So, I have to assume you're trying to convince yourself. Liam's not going to pay. This is the best fucking thing that's ever happened to him. Now he can screw that lovely," she spat the word, "secretary of his in peace and not have to worry about me."

Simon stood and crossed his arms. He had no right to be angry at her, he had no right to feel any way toward her. But he was angry, he was seething.

"I don't even know what you guys were thinking. You should have taken one look at me and realized any sane person would pay five hundred thousand dollars to get rid of me! I don't have a face for rescuing."

Simon uncrossed his arms and looked at Erica. She was shaking, maybe she was crying or trying not to. Maybe she was just scared and sad and full of the sorts of emotions you don't understand until you're held captive. He reached out one hand so he was almost touching the birth mark on her neck. He stopped just short.

"Do you know anyone else who would pay the ransom?" He lowered his hand and looked away.

Erica took several deep breaths then laughed bitterly. "No. How sad is that?"

Simon patted the back of her hand, she tensed at the contact. He retreated to the corner of the room and stared at the floor.

"If Liam didn't leave you because you'd get half of everything in the divorce, why didn't you leave him?"

"I guess that's just one of those questions you have to ask yourself when you find yourself taped to a chair with a blind fold over your eyes."

Neither of them spoke. Simon had never realized before how insufficient the English language could be. He filled the silence with thoughts of what ifs. What if Erica had left her husband? What if she hadn't been born with such a prominent birth mark? What if he had met her somewhere else? At a bar, at a park, passing on the street? Would he have approached her? Would he have thought twice about her? He knew the answer and it made him sick.

"You'd think after four years of studying the English language I'd know something to say," Erica said, "I guess my degree is as pointless as they all said it would be."

"I never went to college. I respect you for that."

"Lot of good that does me now...Thank you, though, Simon, I guess."

Simon picked at the unfinished walls, pulling out little slivers of pale wood.

"No, you know what," --Erica sat up straighter-- "thank you very much. It really means a lot to hear you say that."

Simon rolled his eyes. "That's just the Stockholm syndrome talking."

Erica laughed. "Maybe."

* * *

After the client paid the ransom Zach would call. Simon, Miguel, and Larry would clean up the house, make sure there wasn't any trace of their presence. The product would stay tied up in the room when they left. Once they were far enough away Zach would let the client know her location and she'd be discovered in a matter of hours. They'd ditch the van and drive south in separate cars. Their meeting place was a boat house in northern Georgia where Zach was paying a guy to sail them down around Florida to Mexico. Mexico was a good place to lay low and unwind until it was safe to return. Not to Charleston, never back to Charleston again, but to some other city with rich men and their ugly wives. A few more jobs like this and Zach and Simon would be able to afford their island paradise.

After the client failed to pay the ransom Zach would call. Miguel and Larry would clean up the house, make sure there wasn't any trace of their presence. In this case, Simon had one job: terminate the product. The house would go down in a fiery blaze, no doubt brought on by the dangerously hot weather. They'd drop the body at the dump site. They'd all split up, drive for miles in opposite directions and lay low in seedy motels until Zach called them. They'd do another job. They'd keep doing jobs until they had enough to buy their paradise island. Or until they were caught.

* * *

No one was watching the product. Miguel, Larry, and Simon were all gathered around a table in the main body of the house. On the table sat the cellphone and the gun. They all stared at their watches. Their watches were ever so slightly off from each other so for each second three ticks could be heard. Larry's minute hand hit twelve first, then Simon's, then Miguel's.

Twelve seconds later, the phone rang. The piercing electronic screech startled Simon even though he'd been waiting for it.

"Yeah," he answered.

From the other end Zach's voice came, stressed and hurried. "He didn't pay."

Miguel and Larry didn't need to ask what Zach had said. They quickly set to work packing the few pieces of furniture they'd brought into the van, leaving Simon to his task.

Simon wrapped his hand around the gun's handle and walked into the back room. Erica smiled when he entered.

"Hello again, Simon, I heard the phone. What'd the boss have to say?"

Simon stood in front of her, held his arm out, the barrel of the gun pointing directly at Erica's head.

"Hello, Simon? I know you're there."

Simon dropped his arm.

"Yes."

Simon reached out and pulled the blind fold off. Erica closed her eyes against the sudden brightness. Simon saw her eyes were a little too close together, her eyebrows were a little too thick, she had a strange mole near the corner of her right eye. This is where it went wrong; Zach didn't choose an ugly girl. She was too beautiful to be worth five hundred thousand dollars.

Slowly Erica opened her eyes, surprising Simon with their sunny blue color.

"You're just as cute as I imagined." Her breathing became heavy and jolting for a moment, a gruesome facsimile of a laugh. Her gaze traveled slowly around the room, settling on the gun.

"Huh," she said, "I told you so."

Simon again raised the gun.

"This is probably one of the only times I've ever been right. I guess life really is a bitch." Her voice was soft and breathy. "You know it's sort of funny, I used to spend so much time thinking about what I want my last words to be and now I can't think of anything. Tell them I said something wonderful, won't you? Of course, you won't, you won't tell them I said anything, you can't, if you knew my last words then they'd know you killed me," she rambled.

She was fidgeting--fidgeting as much as she could while still duct taped to the chair. She looked past the gun directly at Simon, for the first time their eyes met.

"Not in the head," she said, "Please, Simon. My family at least deserves an open casket."

Simon lowered the gun slightly so it was directed at her chest.

"For what it's worth--" His voice was too loud, he paused and started again in a whisper. "For what it's worth, if I had the money...I'd've paid."

She opened her mouth but said nothing. Maybe she couldn't think of anything to say, maybe she couldn't physically speak. But the gun was too heavy now. It had grown progressively heavier under her gaze.

Simon pulled the trigger.

Simon was aware. He was acutely aware of the ringing in his ears, of the dust particles floating through the air, of the tingling sensation running up his arm, of the blood spattered across the back wall. He saw every tiny detail. But if someone had asked, he wouldn't have described it; he couldn't be bothered. He'd shot a life from this room. And the life had taken all matter and meaning with her, leaving behind only all the triviality in the world. Simon wanted to drop the gun, let it clatter to the floor, maybe in slow motion. But he found his skin and the metal had somehow fused together and the gun was a part of him now, a permanent extension of his aching arm.

Larry and Miguel entered the room. Maybe they said something, maybe they didn't. Larry put his arm around Simon's shoulders and led him out to the van.

"I've got to go help Miguel clean up," he said before leaving Simon alone in the car.

Simon closed his eyes, fully expecting to see her beautiful face, but all he saw was black. He hadn't loved her. He hadn't known her. He'd hardly even spoken to her. This wasn't a tragic ending. Simon knew he was the bad guy. He also knew that admission didn't mean shit.

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