by Abbi Cook
And yet, month after month, my body betrays my heart's desire.
The doctor tells me all the time, "Natalie, you're a very young woman. You have a lot of years to have a child." But being young and having a lot of time won't matter at all if it never happens. Worse, I have a husband who is fifteen years older than I am. What if it takes until I'm thirty-five to get pregnant? Will he want to be a father at fifty?
All of this settles into my brain as Adam and I sit silently next to one another on the bed we share. I want to say I will make him happy, that it's only been a few years that we've been trying and I'm young and I have a lot of years to have children.
I say nothing, though. Words are meaningless without actions behind them.
When we first started trying and failing, I never told a soul but I secretly hoped it was because Adam had some problem. What kind of wife thinks that? I don't know, but I did and I'd never prayed for anything more that day he went to the doctor than to hear he had a low sperm count and we might never have a child because of him.
The guilt over that lasted for days until the test results came back and proved that the problem we were having with conceiving didn't reside in his body, so it must be in mine. My body had the fault. His sperm was fine.
So then I had to live with the guilt of wishing Adam was defective and not me and the fact that I still couldn't give him the one thing in the world he wanted. That was four years ago. Now the guilt has hardened into something akin to a barrier that's grown between us. It's invisible to the naked eye, but it's there. I feel it. I'm sure he does too.
We never talk about having children anymore like we used to in the beginning. Back then, we'd smile and tell one another how much we couldn't wait to change one of the bedrooms into a nursery and just how the room would be decorated. Adam thought a yellow and grey room with bright yellow ducks would be great for our child. I wanted a green or blue baby's room maybe with turtles or rabbits. We each had names in mind for our soon-to-arrive child too. I can't remember them anymore, but at the time, I loved every single suggestion he made and all the adorable names I found in the pregnancy reference books I threw into the garbage last year.
I don't want to think about that anymore, so I squeeze my eyes shut and force those thoughts away to the dark recesses of my mind. When they're gone, I open my eyes and smile.
"Have you heard from the police about my purse?" I ask, disrupting Adam’s scrolling through some news story on his phone.
As always when I speak to him, he puts his phone into his pocket and turns to look at me. Shaking his head, he frowns at my silliness about my purse. "That's already a cold case, Natalie. Three months is a long time for a simple purse snatching and mugging. The police can't be expected to find it after all this time. You can just get yourself another purse."
And with that, the only question I've ever asked my husband about what happened to me that night is dismissed, as usual.
I wish I could think of what happened as a simple mugging, but since then, nothing has felt simple about my life. The uneasiness I feel about my place in the world has mushroomed inside me. Even more, the nightmares and now visions that visit me make me afraid of living. Part of me wants to know who that little girl is, but another part of me is terrified to know why she'd appear to me like some ominous spirit whose meaning I should understand.
Worst of all, I have no one to talk to about all of this. My husband wouldn't understand. Adam would minimize it all and explain it away with some statement about my mind running away with me and how I should get a hobby. My mother would chastise me for wasting time on such silliness. She'd remind me of the wonderful life my husband has given me and how I should concentrate on giving him a child in return.
That leaves my sisters. Lauren is gone, I've never been very close to Tess, and the last thing poor Claire needs is to have to listen to my ridiculous stories of nightmares when she's living a real life version of one every minute since Lauren ran away.
"You should eat something," Adam says as he puts his phone back into his pocket again. "What will it be? Blueberry muffin? The oatmeal should be cool enough to eat by now. Would you like that?"
I know he won't let me get away with not having at least a few bites of something, so I force a smile and point at the muffin. "Blueberry muffin, please."
Handing me the plate, he says, "Good choice. That's what I would have gone with too. Now you enjoy. Is there anything else you need right now?"
I break off a tiny piece of the muffin and pop it into my mouth. The taste of fresh blueberries explodes on my tongue, another delicious treat I usually can't have.
"No, I'm good. Go do what you have to. I'll be fine here."
He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head before whispering, "Good. I'll be back in a little while. You rest up."
As I take another small bite of my muffin, I watch my husband in his grey suit pants and white dress shirt walk out of our bedroom. I have no idea why he had to leave. Maybe he spent the last few minutes thinking about the child we don't yet have and may never have. Maybe he has something to do for work. I don't know, and to be honest, I don't care. And as much as I love him, I don't miss him now that he's gone.
All I can think about are my nightmares and that vision of that little girl from this morning. I don't know if I'm terrified to not know what they mean or terrified to find out. All I know is something's wrong with me.
Chapter Six
Alexei
Adam Anchoff walks into my office very different from the last time he came to see me. Then, unsure of everything but his memory of my father and his dedication to that religious nonsense they all believe, he was hesitant but still desperate enough to be rid of his wife to ask a man like me to get rid of her for him.
Now as he approaches the black leather chair in front of my desk, he’s casual and confident in his grey business suit. A man who sees his future as nothing but shiny and new.
I barely know the man and I hate him. That won’t stop me from taking his money and doing the job, though. I hate a lot of people. It doesn’t change the fact that I am exactly the man Adam Anchoff believed I was when he approached me about this job of his.
“Completed your piggy bank raiding?” I ask with a sneer, unwilling to hide my distaste for the kind of man he is.
Unlike him, I am neither desperate nor in need of anything from the likes of him, so I have no reason to treat him with respect or even dignity. I reserve those for souls I at least like.
He lifts a brown leather briefcase up in front of him and grins like a fucking Cheshire cat. “It’s all there. All two hundred thousand. My retirement took a pretty big hit, but it’s for a good cause.”
I stare at him and wonder if he understands how surreal he sounds when he says things like that. Then again, maybe I’ve misjudged the beautiful Natalie Anchoff. Maybe she is a total fucking harpy who makes his life a living hell. It’s not like I’ve known that many women who weren’t in some way exactly that, so maybe she has it coming to her.
Curious more this time than last, I ask, “So you found someone new and need to get rid of the old model? She must be a doozy.”
My question and comment make the smile slide from his face. As he lowers the briefcase down to his side, he shakes his head and almost seems sad.
“Natalie was an investment I made in the future. Unfortunately, not all investments pay off. I had hoped it would someday, but once I realized she couldn’t give me what I want, I knew what I had to do.”
It’s impossible to miss how he describes her as an inanimate object. An investment he made in the future. Interesting way to describe a woman.
But I’m still curious about what specifically she’s done to bring this on herself. Why would a man clearly not good enough to have a gorgeous younger wife be so willing to rid himself of her?
So I bait him with a comment.
“Women in their forties can be difficult,” I muse like we’re friends sharing miseries. �
�They’re entering that next phase of life, something men don’t understand.”
I watch Adam Anchoff’s expression, but it remains what I imagine is the closest he comes to looking sad. He sighs and shakes his head, like all of this has been such a burden for him to bear.
“Natalie isn’t in her forties. She’s twenty-six. And if I’m being honest, she’s beautiful. Absolutely the kind of woman a man would want on his arm at parties and events. Except for a few occasions when she forgot to keep her mouth shut and made people at the club uncomfortable with her knowledge of politics and world events, she’s exactly the kind of woman I expected when I arranged with her mother to take her for my wife.”
Now I don’t want to bother with beating around the bush anymore. If his wife is so wonderful, why does he want me to kill her?
“Then if she’s all that, why do you want her gone?”
Whatever sadness he was feeling evaporates from his face, replaced by a look of petulance a child might wear when he’s told he can’t have ice cream for dessert or he has to do his homework before going outside to play with his friends. It’s an ugly look on Adam Anchoff, as it is on any grown man, and I have a sense of what his answer will be before he even gets the first word out.
And when he does, it sounds as asinine as he looks.
“She can’t give me the one thing I want. Children. We’ve tried and tried, but nothing. She’s a barren, shriveled up thing, even if she’s only twenty-six. That’s not what I bargained for when I agreed to marry her. I was clearly lied to by her family, but I can’t divorce her or I’ll lose even more than I have already. So I have no choice. I deserve to have a life, don’t I? I was told she was fertile and would give me children. That was the deal. Now she can’t, so what am I expected to do?”
I listen to him whine about how bad he has it being married to a beautiful young wife who is wonderful in every way except one and can’t imagine my hatred for him could grow even more. He talks like it’s the goddamned Middle Ages, for fuck’s sake. Barren? Fertile? Bargaining with her family about marriage? Who the hell does that anymore?
Of course, those religious fanatics my father used to spend way too much damn time with still do, so I shouldn’t be surprised that Adam Anchoff thinks like this. Still, it’s jarring to hear a man talk about his wife and marriage in terms better suited to centuries ago.
As he continues to explain his dilemma, I nod and smile robotically. “You can adopt, you know. With the money you’re paying me to get rid of her, you could buy a child. Doesn’t that fall in line with your beliefs better than killing someone?”
Shaking his head, he grimaces like that’s the most distasteful thing he’s ever heard uttered. “No. No. I wouldn’t know what kind of stock I’d be getting. No, I want a child of my own, preferably a boy, and I need a new wife for that.”
I don’t bother mentioning that whether a child is a boy or girl is determined by a man’s sperm carrying the necessary Y chromosome, not anything to do with a wife. The Genesis cult always hated science, so I doubt Adam Anchoff has little more than disdain for it himself.
Plus, that fact would mean he’d be responsible for never having a son to carry on the family name. He couldn’t have that.
“Well, a wife who can’t give you what you want certainly is a good reason to want her dead,” I say, barely tempering my sarcasm at how ridiculous the man in front of me truly is.
It would serve him right if I didn’t kill poor Natalie Anchoff and instead gave her a chunk of that two hundred grand and sent her off to start a new life on some island in the Caribbean somewhere, far away from Anchoff, his idiotic religious beliefs, and that entire existence.
Then a thought occurs to me. Mrs. Anchoff must be one of his kind too. Suddenly, all my fantasies about the beautiful Natalie have cold water thrown on them.
“Your wife is a part of the Church of Genesis too?” I ask, almost wondering aloud through my disappointment.
“No, not really. Her mother left the church years ago when she was very young, so she never really internalized many of the teachings. That has also been a grave disappointment to me as her education makes understanding them next to impossible, but I could have overlooked that if she could give me children. As it is, it’s just another reason our marriage hasn’t worked out.”
The more I hear about Natalie Anchoff, the more I like her and the less I like her husband. Maybe I will take his money and send her off to that island, after all.
No, probably not.
“So will this happen soon?” Adam Anchoff asks, once again too eager for my taste.
The man has no finesse. No couth. Just because my world involves killing people doesn’t mean it can’t have taste and tact. Just another reason to hate him. He’s like some fucking troglodyte.
“It will happen when it’s supposed to. These things take planning and time. Be patient. It’s not like you can’t work at getting your next wife pregnant right now as I make my preparations.”
My answer doesn’t do anything to make him happy. Instead, he continues with his overeager and tacky display. “Well, she’ll be at home all day for the next few days. She fainted, so I’m having her stay in bed for at least a week.”
“Are you stupid?” I ask, barely able to contain my disbelief at how ridiculous he is and unsure which sounds dumber—keeping a woman in bed for a week because she fainted or thinking a hit man should kill her in his own fucking house.
“What are you thinking? The first person they’ll suspect is you if she’s found dead there.”
Fuck, this guy is a moron.
But he’s not dissuaded. “They’re going to suspect me anyway. I’m the husband. But I have an airtight alibi. I’ll be at work each day.”
True criminal genius stands in front of me.
A part of me wants to shoot this fucker straight through the center of his forehead and rid myself and the world of this nonsense. I don’t, though, because even the tiniest hassle of having to handle his dead body is too much to deal with regarding Adam Anchoff.
“I’ll do the job when I’m ready and when it’s the right time. Until then, keep living your life like you always have, and if you want to get out of this scot-free, don’t do anything obvious and out of the ordinary.”
His face twists into an expression of pure confusion. “What do you mean? Are you saying I can’t live my life like I want to?”
“I’m saying that anything that makes you look guilty will lead to you going to prison for your wife’s death. They won’t be sending me anywhere because I leave no trace and no evidence when I do my job. That will leave you on the hook if you’ve been running around acting like a horny teenager or like a man wishing to get rid of his wife. Understand?”
Sulking, he shrugs. “I guess. I just hope this doesn’t take long. Does it usually take a long time?”
He asks that like I have fucking charts and graphs that will give him his answer. Like I have an average time it takes to check out a mark, their environment, and the circumstances that surround a job. It happens when it fucking happens.
“It takes as long as it takes,” I say dismissively, done with this conversation already. “You know what to do, so if you do it, things will work out the way you want them to. Don’t call me after today. Don’t come here to see me again. This is the last time we’ll ever speak. If you can’t follow those rules, take your briefcase of money and go away.”
My threat spooks him, and he quickly nods his head in agreement. “I can follow them. I won’t contact you. I’ll just wait for it to happen.”
“Good. Now leave the briefcase on the chair and go about your life. Good luck, Mr. Anchoff.”
“Thank you. Thank you for this. You can’t know how happy I am that this is going to be taken care of.”
I wave my hand to get him to leave, and thankfully, he takes the hint and hurries out of my office. I’ve had enough of his stupidity for one day.
Fuck, I’ve had enough for one lifetime.
“What’s up, boss?”
“I’m sending you the names of two people. I want to know everything there is to know about them. Understand? And while you’re finding that out, I want eyes on an address I’m also sending you. I want to know when anyone leaves, returns, and any other pertinent information, including about the neighbors’ habits.”
“Got it. How fast do you want the bio stuff?” Samson asks as I send off Adam and Natalie’s names and home address to his phone.
“As fast as possible. If there’s something to know about either of them but especially her, I want to know it ASAP.”
“I’m on it. How long do you want me to watch the address you sent me?”
For a moment, I think about that. He said she’d be home for the next week because she fainted, as ridiculous as that sounds, so let’s see if she obeys her husband as much as he assumes she does.
“Keep an eye on the place for the next five days. I might want you to go longer, but let’s go with five days for now. I want to know every little thing that happens there, no matter how small or insignificant it seems. If he opens the garage door and leaves it open for ten minutes before he leaves for work in the morning, I want to know. If she likes to keep the windows open all day, I want to know.”
“I’m on it. Anything in particular you want me to look for?”
“Yeah. If she leaves, I want to know everywhere she goes down to the tiniest detail. How long she’s gone. Where she goes. Who she sees. How long it takes her to get there and how long she stays before she returns home.”
I hear Samson hum something before he answers like he always does. “I’m on it. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Good. And in the meantime, if you see anything interesting I might want to know immediately, call me.”