Thirty-Four

Lucy went to the mall.

She wasn't remotely interested in shopping, but had no idea where else to go. She thought maybe if she wandered around Macy's and Target and Boscov's and in and out of the countless smaller stores, it would take her mind off her troubles, and maybe while she was doing that Billy would text her and tell her to come home. She wasn't expecting him to say he'd forgiven her, but if he at least said she could come back, and promised he wouldn't hurt her, that would be a first step.

If and when he did get in touch, she would tell him again how sorry she was, that she would do anything she could to make things right, but he had to get rid of that gun. That gun had scared the living shit out of her. So long as it was in the house, she wasn't safe.

She went to the food court and bought a coffee and muffin and sat at one of the small tables for four, wondering where she would go if Billy didn't get in touch before the mall closed. She had friends from work, but none close enough that she could ask to stay over. Even if she did, she'd have to explain why she couldn't go home, and did she really want to get into all that?

One thing she wasn't going to do was call the police. Sure, she could tell them Billy'd threatened her with a gun and they'd go arrest his ass, but inevitable questions would follow. Why'd he have a gun in the first place? Who was he afraid of, and why? Why had he threatened her? What had she done?

Oh, well, I was skimming from this fentanyl shipment he was holding for these two dealers who bring the stuff in from Mexico.

Calling the police was what you might call a nonstarter.

Lucy sipped on her coffee, not really tasting it, and picked away at her muffin, eating some of the top crunchy part and destroying the rest of it, nervously breaking it down into little bits. She left the empty cup and crumbled muffin on the table and resumed her wandering.

The stores were starting to close. The metal-and-glass fronts were being slid into place, lights going off, so Lucy left the mall and went back to her car. Got behind the wheel but did not start the engine. She took out her phone and brought up her texts.

Stared at the screen, willing Billy to send her a message.

She'd take the first step. She typed:

I love you and I want to come home.

Hit send. The message, her phone said, had been delivered.

Come on, come on. Reply, you dumb asshole.

Nothing. No little dots. That didn't have to mean he was still too pissed to reply. He might not have seen the message.

She decided to give him another minute before sending a second message.

I understand if you don't forgive me but we can work this out.

She followed this with two heart emojis, waited another thirty seconds, and sent it.

Nothing.

The parking lot was thinning out. Lucy began to feel vulnerable, sitting here alone in a car as night fell. It was time, as they say, to face the music. She keyed the ignition.

Billy's van was still in the driveway. There were lights on in the house and the garage, so it was a toss-up where he was. She decided to go into the house first. If she saw that gun on the kitchen table before she found Billy, she'd hide it. But as soon as she walked through the door, all thoughts of the gun left her.

Holy shit.

The place looked like a tornado had swept through.

Chairs turned over, the sofa pulled away from the wall. The stereo cabinet open, CDs and DVDs scattered.

"Billy?" she called out, unable to keep the fear out of her voice.

All the kitchen cupboards were open, dishes scattered about, broken. Boxes of cereal emptied onto the floor. A canister of flour upended. The oven door wide open. The lower freezer compartment of the refrigerator pulled out.

"Billy!" she screamed again.

She ran toward the back of the house to their bedroom. Dresser drawers yanked out, dumped. The closet open, the top shelf emptied. The mattress on its side up against the wall.

Lucy went to the top of the stairs that led down to Billy's man cave. Her voice softer now, but still shaky. "Billy? You down there?"

Slowly, she descended the steps until she could take in the room. The tornado had been through here, too.

Still no Billy.

There was only the garage left to check out.

Lucy went out the back door, crossed the yard to the garage. Her hand still shaking, she turned the handle and entered.

Things were torn apart in here, too, but not to the same degree. The locker was wide open. What Lucy knew to be the most important item that should have been in there was gone.

"Billy?" she whispered.

There was a smell in the air. And not just one thing. There was a whiff of something unpleasant, almost... septic? But that was mixed with a more familiar aroma, something spicy. There was a closed take-out food box on the roof of the Camaro. Lucy lifted the lid an inch. Chicken wings slathered with orange hot sauce.

And then she spotted what had to be the source of the other smell.

Billy lay facedown, his head turned only slightly, his nose jammed into the concrete floor. His arms were splayed out at awkward angles, and a large puddle of blood spread out from under his torso.

Lucy screamed until she brought her own hand to her mouth to stifle it.

"Billy?" she said a few seconds later after taking her hand from her mouth and kneeling next to him. She touched his back lightly, gave him the slightest shove, as though trying to wake him from a nap.

"Billy?" she said again.

The toe of her shoe touched the slowly expanding blood pool. She stood, backed away, turned, and ran from the garage as though it were on fire.