by Laura Wolfe
The woman stepped toward me, her brow furrowing in concern. “What did you say your name was again?”
The muscles in my jaw twitched, my body wavering on the top step. “M-Megan. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss. Your husband was a good man. I’ve got to get going.” Turning on my heel, I jogged down the steps feeling as if I was running for my life.
◆◆◆
Outside, gathering clouds had turned the sky murky and gray as a light rain gathered force and pelted against my living room window. I’d driven directly home from my visit with Peter’s wife as my fingers gripped around the steering wheel, and my heart thumped wildly inside my chest. Now, my unclenched fingers stumbled across the keyboard, hitting the wrong letters then backing up to retype again.
At last, I formulated a search—Peter Zinsky obituary Chicago. I held my breath as a screenful of results appeared. I clicked on the top result from the Tribune, opening a black-and-white thumbnail of Peter’s face along with a two-paragraph obituary. I lowered my face next to the screen, my eyes flying over the words.
Peter Kyle Zinsky, loving husband, father, and son, born December 3rd…died at his home in Chicago on May 20th at the age of 61…survived by his wife, Denise, son, Matthew, and sister, Jeanine. He is predeceased by his mother, Anne, and his father, John.
Peter lived his life quietly and compassionately, frequently volunteering at the New Hope Soup Kitchen and as an English tutor for recent immigrants…graduated with a degree in communications from Marquette University…worked most of his adult life in marketing and real estate sales.
I skimmed over the details of the memorial service, snagging to a halt on the last line.
In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations in Peter’s memory be sent to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.
My toes curled down into the floor, my breath jagged and dry at the idea of Peter’s family believing he’d committed suicide. Peter had died on May 20th. That was over five months ago, just a couple of weeks after he’d confronted me with the knife. What had I been doing on that day? Had Jacqueline been with me? I couldn’t remember.
I clicked back to the search results, not finding anything related to Peter. I entered another search—suicide Chicago gun May, leading to another Tribune article dated May 21st—Local Man Found Dead in Garage; Suicide Suspected.
Chicago Police responded to a call on Chicago’s north side on Wednesday night, discovering the remains of a man who was believed to have shot himself in the head. The victim, who will remain unnamed until all family is notified, was discovered by his wife in a detached garage behind the home. She immediately called 911.
“All early indications point to suicide,” said police officer Bill McCaffery. “A revolver was found in the victim’s right hand. The door to the garage was locked with no sign of forced entry. We have not located a note, but the victim’s wife said her husband had recently been struggling with depression after losing his job.”
Over 38,000 Americans die by suicide each year, with men being almost four times more likely to take their own lives than women…
My phone buzzed, pulling my eyes toward it. Jacqueline. I swallowed back the nausea spreading through me, my hand quivering as I answered the call. Before I could utter a word, Jacqueline barked at me.
“Mara. I need you to input yesterday’s sales at Arlington on the Park into the MLS. Units 501 and 304 are still coming up as active.”
“Okay.”
“Why aren’t you in the office?”
I stood up and paced toward the window. “Did you know that Peter Zinsky died?”
“What?”
“Peter Zinsky. The man who was your assistant before me. He committed suicide on May 20th.”
“Really?” Jacqueline’s breath rushed in and out a few times. “Oh, my gosh. No. I had no idea.” Her voice rang hollow.
I gripped the hem of my shirt in my fist and squeezed.
Jacqueline cleared her throat. “I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise. He was so unstable.” She clucked. “At least he won’t be bothering you anymore.”
My face burned. I wanted to scream, to tell Jacqueline that she wasn’t going to get away with this, but a dark warning pulsated through me. I couldn’t let her know I knew the truth. It would be reckless. I’d be putting my own life at risk. My fingers released the crumpled lining of my shirt.
“Yeah,” I said, my throat tightening as I forced out the word.
“So, get that MLS information corrected ASAP.”
“Yeah,” I said again because I couldn’t come up with any other words. I ended the call.
Below me, red brake lights cut through the haze of rain as a line of cars formed behind the traffic light on Milwaukee Avenue. A man jogged across the intersection, his umbrella catching in the wind and flipping inside out. Another woman pulled her jacket over her head for shelter as she scurried up the sidewalk. Even caught in a storm, soaking wet in the freezing rain, I envied their freedom.
My phone buzzed again, my muscles tensing as I half-expected to see Jacqueline’s name on the screen again. It was Damon.
“Hey, beautiful.”
“Hi.”
“How’s your day?”
My lips moved, but no words came out. A hot tingling sensation forced its way up my throat, through my nose, behind my eyes. “Okay,” I finally managed, but my voice cracked, and my nose sniffled.
“What’s wrong?”
I stepped over to my computer, resting my palm on my desk. Peter’s face smiled up at me from his obituary. “Remember the guy I told you about who used to work for Jacqueline? Peter Zinsky?”
“The one who pulled a knife on you?”
“Yeah.”
“Did that piece of shit do something else?”
“He committed suicide.”
Damon exhaled. “What? Are you serious?”
“Yeah. He shot himself. Back in May. I just found out about it today.”
“Man. He must have been even more screwed up than you realized.”
“I know.” I bit my tongue, fighting the urge to tell Damon everything I suspected, everything I knew. But telling him wasn’t worth the risk. He’d go to the authorities, just as he would have done if I’d told him the truth about Kevin’s death, and who knew what Jacqueline would do for revenge? I needed the commissions from Arlington on the Park. I needed to keep my part in Jacqueline’s schemes hidden, to make sure the damaging evidence she held over my head never saw daylight.
“Do you want me to come over? I don’t have any more classes today.”
“Sorry. I can’t. I have to do some stuff for Jacqueline. Maybe tomorrow, though.”
I didn’t trust myself not to tell him more. I massaged my temple, silently convincing myself that lying by omission wasn’t as bad as telling an outright lie. Still, I’d repeated Jacqueline’s false versions of reality so many times that the line between reality and fiction was blurring. It was getting harder to keep track of all the lies.
42
I double-parked in front of Damon’s apartment building as Friday traffic lurched past. A layer of November snow glazed the sidewalks and grass with gray blotches of cement bleeding through to the surface. The white covering turned brown at the edges as melting water dripped off rooftops. I stepped onto the curb, avoiding a murky puddle of slush, and tried not to destroy my suede boots. I waved to Damon and ducked back into my car, anxious to escape the damp air.
He unloaded his bag into the trunk and leaned near my open window “Do you want me to drive?”
“I’m good,” I said.
An agonizing month had passed since I’d learned both Kevin and Peter had died under suspicious circumstances. I’d kept my lips sealed, Jacqueline’s threats following me everywhere, my eyes popping open throughout the night, my muscles jumping at every loud noise. I’d had the locks to my condo changed and a security system installed, but Jacqueline was capable of anything. Despite my best efforts to disguise my fear, it lived in
side me. One wrong move and I’d be her next victim. Even if she didn’t murder me, she could destroy my life with her lies.
I’d been working on overdrive trying to keep her happy at the Arlington on the Park sales center by hosting the Sunday open houses, returning phone calls, filing the correct paperwork, and recording the sold units on the master plat. Jacqueline only stopped by once a week to make sure I was completing my assigned duties. Our relationship had grown more toxic than black mold, but we managed to continue our business as usual. We were like a married couple that each knew the other was sleeping with someone else. Divorce was inevitable, but we agreed to stay together for the kids. She needed to win Top Producer to earn back the love of her parents—or at least one-up them—by having her face plastered to the billboard on I-94. And I needed to preserve my life, not to mention Emma’s. Jacqueline and I put on a convincing front for co-workers and clients. I doubted anyone suspected we wanted to push each other down the elevator shaft of a tall building.
In a few weeks, Jacqueline’s reign as Chicago’s Top Producer would begin, and I could finally break free, just as Kevin and Peter had urged me to do. Her sales numbers exceeded Natalia’s by over ten million dollars. She’d been right about Natalia’s reality show. For every one client who wanted his business aired on TV, there were three more who did not. Natalia was losing clients almost as fast as Jacqueline was gaining them. Jacqueline had nine closings already scheduled for December and one for early January that she was angling to push up to the end of December. On top of her regular sales, Arlington on the Park was doing well in pre-sales. In the first eight weeks since the sales center opened, we’d pre-sold forty-eight units. She’d have a head start on Natalia for next year, too.
Unbelievably, I’d make over $200,000 in my first year as a realtor. It was more money than I’d ever dreamed of yet, if not for Emma, it wouldn’t have been worth everything Jacqueline had put me through.
Damon climbed into the passenger seat, his cold hand squeezing mine and a tentative smile on his face. A dark shadow hovered over me as I forced a smile and kissed him. I’d been keeping so many secrets from him, not willing to risk sharing my suspicions about Jacqueline’s murderous tendencies and other illegal schemes. He’d grown frustrated with me the last few weeks, sensing that I was hiding something. Sometimes I blamed my distant stares on Emma or work. Most times, I assured him it was nothing. Still, an invisible wall had formed between us, our nights together less frequent and even less passionate.
The weekend getaway to my friend, Brianna’s wedding in Michigan, was meant to be the perfect remedy. I pictured the lacey new lingerie folded at the bottom of my suitcase and tapped my freshly-manicured fingernails on the steering wheel. The two-and-a-half-hour drive to the lakeside town of South Haven would be a welcome escape from the city, from Jacqueline. Plus, as much as I hated to admit it, a part of me was eager to show off my new success to my college friends, to watch their mouths drop open as I got out of my BMW with a handsome law student by my side. I merged onto 94-East, ready to leave the stress of my day-to-day life behind, at least for a weekend.
We crept along the expressway in bumper-to-bumper traffic. My phone buzzed steadily with incoming phone calls and emails. Damon stared at me.
“Turn it off. We can’t even have a conversation.”
I nodded and hit the power button. This weekend would be all about Damon and me. Work could wait. As I drove, he told funny stories about his law school classmates—a woman who sat in the front row and asked dumb questions just as class was about to end, a guy who reeked of garlic and always sat next to him, and another guy who copied his notes and was a useless member of his study group.
The landscape outside our windows changed as we made our way south of the city. Rundown, treeless subdivisions bordered the highway on either side. Roofs sagged. Windows boarded and barred. Just when we thought the surroundings couldn’t get more depressing, we passed a trailer park bordered by a landfill on one side and the highway on the other.
“Can you imagine if you lived there?” he asked, his mouth curving into a frown.
“That would suck.” I wanted to engage more, to have a deeper conversation about how some people left their circumstances up to chance, but I was too distracted. Not just by all the calls and emails I was ignoring, but also by everything going on with Jacqueline. She was vindictive. She’d agreed to give me a two-day “vacation” for the wedding, but I worried she’d want payback for my time off. In the last six months, I hadn’t enjoyed a single day without phone calls, showings, and emails. Still, she’d glared at me and shook her head when I told her I was going to Michigan for the weekend. A sour feeling settled at the bottom of my stomach as I wondered what she’d do for revenge. The image of me with the guy at Drumbar kept popping into my mind, a constant reminder my life could implode at any minute. All Jacqueline had to do was email that photo to Damon, and she could destroy our relationship. She could knock me down from my trendy Bucktown condo to the trailer park by the landfill. It would only take one email. Or one video.
As Damon rambled on about one of his friends who repeatedly bailed out on their basketball games, I considered telling him about the meaningless kiss. If I came clean and explained what had happened, then Jacqueline wouldn’t have that power over me. I glanced over at my boyfriend’s smiling lips, his kind eyes, and strong arms. As soon as I had the thought, I trashed it as a horrible idea. There was too much to lose. My confession would ruin our weekend, and he might not be as forgiving as I imagined.
I tried to get my mind off my dilemma by switching radio stations and listening to Damon sing off-key. There were only six more weeks to survive with Jacqueline. Then I’d be free to work for myself. She’d promised as long as I helped her win Top Producer, she’d set me free. I could do it, but I wasn’t going to let her mess up my business with my own clients. Those clients would be mine after we went our separate ways, and I couldn’t lose them. I sucked in a sharp breath as I envisioned all the negative reviews that had been posted about me recently on the internet. Admittedly, I’d had to reschedule with my buyers a few times, and I missed a showing at one of my listings because of Jacqueline’s demands. Still, I didn’t think my actions warranted being called “irresponsible” and “disorganized.” My gut needled with the suspicion that Jacqueline had been sabotaging me. She preferred I spend my time and energy working on her deals. Everything else I did took away from her bottom-line.
We passed over the skyway through Gary, Indiana. The nasty, chemical smell of air pollution spewed from the steel factories and seeped into my car.
“How is this legal?” I asked, pointing to an industrial chimney churning out black smoke.
Damon stopped singing and covered his nose. He punched the button on my dashboard to recirculate the car’s interior air. “This might be worse than that trailer park next to the landfill.”
I glanced at my phone and nodded. “I guess things can always be worse.”
◆◆◆
It was easier to forget about work and about Jacqueline once we arrived at the Inn in South Haven. The sky had darkened by the time we checked in, but the air somehow felt lighter. For the first time in months, I could breathe.
We checked into our Victorian-themed room, giggling at the creepy antique doll resting on a wooden cabinet in the corner of the wallpapered room. Famished, we dropped our bags on the floor and headed to a waterside bar where we ate greasy fish and chips and downed some draft beer. By the first sip of my second beer, I’d completely transformed, my body relaxed, my attention focused only on Damon. I’d been under Jacqueline’s thumb for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to be free. We ordered another beer. And another. The walls around the tiny booth felt safe and secure. I never wanted to leave.
By the time we stumbled back to the inn, Damon had to prop me up, my legs sagging under my weight.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have had that last one,” he said as he helped me to bed, pulling my shoes f
rom my feet.
I woke in the morning, my fancy lingerie still tucked into the bottom of my suitcase, my stomach sour, and my head splitting in pain. Damon brought me water, and I apologized for over-drinking. After my shower, Damon returned from the hotel lobby with an assortment of muffins and fruit. I nibbled what I could and told him I felt better, although my head pulsed. We wandered down to the pier, cradling cups of coffee in our hands. I couldn’t drink mine because of the smell.
We strolled down the beach bundled up in our coats as a frigid November wind whipped off Lake Michigan. Later, we browsed the shops in town, buying small mementos like candles and blueberry jam. By lunchtime, my head had cleared, and my stomach gnawed with hunger. We met up with my friend, Beth, and her boyfriend, Matt, at an old bank that had been converted into a restaurant. Damon chatted with my friends as if he’d known them for years. I leaned back in the vinyl booth, awed by my perfect boyfriend, and basking in the change of pace from my usual Saturdays. The others sipped their micro-brews, while I stuck to water.
Damon nodded toward me. “She was overserved last night.” He gave me a wink to let me know he wasn’t mad.
The others chuckled at my state of recovery, as the waitress placed a stack of enormous battered onion rings in front of us. Beth and I caught up on mutual friends. I filled her in on Grace’s new condo and told her how Chloe had screwed me by not using me as her realtor, leaving out the part about dumping my beer in her face.