Page 52 of Mail Order Bride

“How much would you like to deposit today?”

“Thirty-eight dollars.”

“I see,” he says, rubbing at his chin. “You're quite the gambler, I hear.”

“News travels fast.”

“Yes, it does.” He leans against the chair. “I’m afraid I can't help you, Mrs. Miller. As much as I'd like to. We're going to need Mr. Miller to come in so we can get this account set up.”

“Joel? Why?”

“You're a newly married woman, isn't that right?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Married women aren't permitted to open accounts without their husband as a signer on the account.”

“That's absurd.”

“It's the law.”

“Well, surely you can make an exception. Joel doesn't care whether I have an account.”

“He'll have to come in and say that himself. And of course, offer his signature.”

I walk out of the bank, irritated. And to be honest, downright furious. I'm saving up for headshots, an acting coach, and the clothes I’ll need for auditions. Keeping that money around the house makes it too easy to spend. After the encounter at the bank, I drive around town because I'm in no mood to go home.

I think I might be going crazy, being in that house. It feels like the walls are closing in on me there, and in this town. Maybe this is what they mean by stir-crazy, by cabin fever, by “this town sucked the life out of me.” Maybe you just slip further and further away until the person you were before, the person you thought you were, the person you’ve always been, no longer exists. I don’t know, but that’s how it feels.

It’s not that I haven’t been using my time wisely. I have. I’ve written to approximately twenty-seven agents. A couple of them even wrote back. One was a standard form letter, the other asked for headshots.

It got me thinking. I haven’t had my photo taken in ages. Delores from the diner told me there’s a photographer with a studio down on Main Street, so I decide to stop by and see what he charges.

As I’m passing the Apricot Inn, I spot something familiar, something that catches my eye. Joel’s truck is sitting in the lot, which is interesting because he told me he’d be at the cemetery all day.

I park in the spot next to him and make a beeline for the motel office, thinking back on my vision. I would ask myself how I hadn’t seen this coming, Joel being so distant, the quiet pulling away—but I did see it. I pictured it. Clear as day.

The woman at the desk is chewing on a piece of bubble gum and spinning her hair around her finger. She's reading a magazine when the door chimes.

“Excuse me, miss,” I say. “Do you know where the owner of that truck is?”

She looks up. “That one?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, summoning my best sheepish expression. “I just bumped into it. Left a dent about yay big. Do you know where I can find the owner?”

“Sure do,” she says. “He’s a regular around here.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Journal Entry

Author Unknown

He was a large, jolly looking man. He reminded me a bit of Santa Claus. It really pained me to have to kill him. Maybe I’m losing my edge, but I simply wasn’t in the mood. Killing him didn’t give me the satisfaction I’d hoped it would.

It was almost disappointing.

Is there anything worse than a depressed serial killer? What a sad, pathetic existence. Killing without pleasure. What's the point? It's pointless. A predator who can’t muster the will to hunt?

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