I called a cab, took enough money from Simon’s wallet to pay for it, then argued
I called a cab, took enough money from Simon’s wallet to pay for it, then argued with the driver about putting my snowy bike in his trunk. I must have sounded extra fierce because he suddenly gave in with a big sigh.
The little house on Bedford Street was dark. I dug through the snow beside the steps to find the key under the stone turtle, which took a while. There were a lot of rocks under the snow doing stone-turtle imitations. My fingers were so sore and frozen by the time I found the key I could hardly pick it up.
Inside, I made my way through a clutter of old boots and other junk to the staircase, where I found a pillow, some towels, and a big cotton T-shirt that said NATIONAL LAWYERS GUILD KNOW YOUR RIGHTS on it. There was a note on top, written in her spidery, old-fashioned handwriting. “Help yourself to food. Extra blankets in the cedar chest upstairs.”
It was a relief that she wasn’t awake. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to think or feel. All I wanted was to get clean and go to sleep. I took a long hot shower, scrubbing my skin until it felt as if I’d stripped a layer away. I dried off, put on the T-shirt, and crept up the stairs.
There wasn’t much stuff in the little room under the eaves, just a bed, a dusty side table with a reading lamp, and a cedar chest that smelled like my little room when I lifted the lid. The room I might never go home to, given I’d skipped out on the meeting with my adoptive parents. Everything seemed overwhelming all of a sudden, and I started to tear up, but mashed the heel of my palm against my eyes and focused on what needed to be done.
No time for feelings. I had to finish the job. Wilson was still in jail, and I had to get him out.
I plugged in my laptop in to recharge the battery and downloaded the second video from Jason’s shirt, checking a few spots to make sure it was focused and clear. I saw Danny bragging, and the look on his face when he realized Simon was serious about blowing things up. I advanced the film until I left the house, selected everything from that point on and deleted it. Boom, gone.
I opened the file of photos from Simon’s phone and, after a quick glance, closed it. He’d taken trophy shots. All the more reason to wreck his life if I could.
I sent a message to Sara Esfahani to tell her that I needed to meet her in the morning. She texted back immediately to say she would be in the hotel lobby at nine.
Okay.
I briefly glanced at photo I’d taken of Simon with my phone, sprawled on the bed with the message on his chest, conked out and drooling. He didn’t look charming or strong or scary. I still felt shaky and a little sick, but strangely calm. As soon as I had taken care of my brother, I would tell Charlie that she didn’t have to worry about Simon anymore and I’d send her the photo. One way or another, it would get out and go viral and Simon Meyer would be finished.
I could do this.
My adoptive parents had each left multiple voicemails. I didn’t have the stomach to listen to them,