Chapter 41

All the color has drained from him. His face is a shade of gray.

I take his pulse. Then take it again for good measure.

Ned is dead.

My skin buzzes as if someone’s electrified my veins. I feel so energized. So alive. You can make a plan, work out every little detail, and then find yourself breathless when it turns out better than you thought.

To be honest, I’m glad he spared me from having to eviscerate him. I’m not sure if I could have gone through with it. Ugh. All that blood and gore. Plus, I kept thinking it would have thrashed on my bed like a lizard’s tail or bounced up and down like a pogo stick.

One thing’s for sure. He won’t be lusting after any more women.

I glance down at my watch. The time reads 8:30. The Got Junk people will be here in a half hour. I’ve got to get moving. Wasting no time, I grab his cold, limp hands and yank him off the bed onto the floor. He lands on his back with a thud. Bending, I clasp his wrists and drag him across the wood floor to the armoire. His glassy eyes stare up at me.

Sheesh! He weighs a ton. I didn’t expect him to be so heavy. “Ned, in your next life you should go on a keto diet,” I mutter, except he can’t hear me and won’t have another life. I cackle.

The armoire is only a few feet away from the bed, but it feels like a mile. I finally reach it and one-handedly pull open the creaky, warped door. An old-fashioned skeleton key hangs from the knob, attached to a red ribbon. The next part isn’t going to be easy. Crouching down, I manage with a grunt to hoist him inside, maneuvering him into a fetal position so he fits. I toss in his clothes (not that he’ll be needing them), then close the door and lock it with the key.

Standing, I catch my breath. Killing him was easy, but that was an ordeal. However, it was nothing compared to getting rid of Rosita, who’s no longer around to clean up after him. Now, that took blood, sweat, and tears. It was easy breaking into her apartment while she was asleep and banging her head with a hammer. It was disposing of her that was a nightmare. She was heavy, and hurling her down a deserted Malibu canyon tested both my physical strength and my fear of heights. The job done, I used her phone, which I’d confiscated, and texted just one person in her list of contacts.

Ava Sinclair.

Hola, Miss Ava. I have an emergencia. Mi mamá es muy sick. Yo necesito regresar to El Salvador right away. No se when I will be back. ~Rosita

I hit send, not expecting a text back from the bed-ridden hag until the next morning. While I’ll confess I did feel a little remorse for the hardworking housekeeper, especially since my mother was one too, I had no choice but to eliminate her in order to execute my well-thought-out plan.

Rest in peace, Rosita.

Rot in hell, Ned.

I return to the moment.

Importantly, I now have Ned’s phone, car keys, and wallet…with all his credit cards and cash. A thousand bucks in total. In a few minutes, the Got Junk people will be here. Going from room to room, I mop the floor and wipe down anything that Ned may have touched, including his tumbler and the front doorknob, and then spray the house with Lysol to disinfect it and eliminate the smell of his sickening cologne. And any scent of me. Next, I strip off all the bedding and my clothing and throw the bundle into the washing machine, making sure to add a lot of bleach.

I need to take a shower to wash away any trace of Ned. Removing my sacred rosary necklace, I stay under the steamy spray for ten relaxing minutes, soaping up my body and washing my hair. As I step out of the stall, squeaky clean and refreshed, I hear the doorbell ring. Shrugging on my robe after putting the necklace back on, I run to the living room and look out the window. Sure enough, it’s Got Junk. I see their monstrous truck parked outside. Cinching the belt of my robe, I hurry to the front door and let them in.

Facing me are two scruffy-looking guys—one is tall and skinny and the other is short and stocky. Both are dressed in worn jeans and bright-yellow GOT JUNK T-shirts and sporting black braces around their torsos for heavy lifting. The skinny one is pulling a dolly.

“You’ve got junk?” asks the taller one.

I smile. “Oh, do I.” I lead them to the armoire in the bedroom. The cabinet door is locked, the key in my handbag.

“That’s it,” I say, pointing at it.

Wasting no time, they get to work and hoist the oak wardrobe onto the dolly.

They both grunt.

“Man, what’s in this?” asks the stout dude.

“Oh, just a sack of shit.” I laugh, telling them to also take the mattress and the boxes in the living room.

Five minutes later, they’re out the door and Ned is on his way to his final resting place. Whatever hellhole that may be. The only deal he’ll be signing is one with the devil.

Back in the bedroom, I sit cross-legged on the floor with Ned’s black bifold wallet on my lap. Inside the slotted red leather interior, the only photo he has is of his precious maman. The other eleven slots are filled with his driver’s license, business card, and various credit cards—nine in total. I bet he’s got a credit line of more than a hundred thousand dollars. Maybe an unlimited one.

Setting the wallet aside, I reach for Ned’s phone and log on to Expedia. To arrange my trip to Buenos Aires.

It takes me forty-five I-want-to-pull-my-hair-out minutes to book two one-way first-class tickets and a suite at the Four Seasons for a few days because Ned’s credit cards keep declining. What the hell? Are they all maxed out? Finally, his platinum Amex works. The airline tickets alone amount to almost twenty thousand dollars because it’s a last-minute, nonstop, same-day flight. I’m lucky I got them. There were only three seats left. Fingers crossed I’ll make the flight. It leaves at midnight. But there’s a lot to do between now and then.

I’m about to get dressed when Ned’s phone pings with a text.

It’s from Ava. Are you at the retreat?

I text back. Just got here. It’s been extended a few days. Won’t be home until Wednesday.

I hit send and chortle. Ned’s never going home from his “retreat.”

I turn off his phone and get dressed. Changing into something comfy for the twelve-hour flight. Some basic black sweats with a hoody, a long-sleeve T-shirt, and my Uggs.

Dressed, I go through my handbag to make sure I have everything I need.

My iPad with my movie script is inside it. I can’t wait to finish it on the long flight.

And importantly, both passports.

Ava’s and Isa’s.

The reason Ava didn’t get Isa’s birth certificate in the mail is because I stole it. It arrived ten days ago. I also stole Ava’s old passport along with her driver’s license and one of her credit cards. I slipped her a few sleeping pills and while she was in a deep sleep, I took Isa, the birth certificate, and Ava’s expired passport to the passport office and easily got new ones. Wearing green contacts, I looked enough like Ava not to be questioned. Moreover, the passport agent, a proud grandma, was too enamored with little Isa to pay much attention.

Also ensconced in my bag is a pair of green contact lenses—the exact color of Ava’s eyes—which I’ll put on before I check in, as well as a sleeping mask which will help me with my fear of heights when we’re up in the air.

I debate what to do with Ned’s phone. I need it in case the airline texts me a flight change or cancellation. Chances are they won’t, but to be on the safe side, I’ll take it with me. When I get to Argentina, I’ll get rid of it. I can’t take any chances of the cops—or the FBI—tracing me.

Next, I toss in Ned’s gun. I stole it from his desk drawer last night and kept it hidden in my medicine cabinet. Ha! He’ll never know it’s missing. Depending on how the rest of the day goes, I may need it.

One last thing to pack: the butcher knife. So sharp and shiny! Though I never got to use it on Ned, it may come in handy later. With blood or without it, I’ll toss it, along with the gun, into some random garbage bin on the way to LAX. There’s no way they’ll get through airport security.

One last dilemma. What do I do with Ned’s car? I can’t leave it hanging around this house for the police to find. Stepping outside, I don’t see it right away. I take a short walk and find it around the corner. His flashy yellow Lamborghini. An idea comes to me: I’ll drive it back to his house and leave it there. When I’m done with business, I’ll call for a cab on Ned’s phone to take me to the airport and pay with cash. The police will think he committed a horrific crime and fled.

About to leave this squatter house behind forever, there’s one last thing I need to do.

Finding some stationery and a pen in my suitcase, I scribble a letter.

Dearest M~

It’s all going to plan.

Tonight’s the night.

You will all be righted.

And soon we will be reunited.

It’s almost like a sonnet. I sign it with my name and a signature heart, then fold it and stuff it along with some of Ned’s cash into a stamped envelope before slipping it into my bag.

Then I’m out the door. I can’t help but smile.

I’ve come up with a foolproof plan.

Believe me, it takes a genius to get away with murder.

And with my 165 IQ, I can.