Page 82 of Stealing His Cupcake
I can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “See for yourself.”
A grainy security-camera photo appears on my screen, showing an unkempt homeless man chugging liquor straight from the bottle. The next image shows the same man, now staring into the distance, the bottle clutched in bloodied knuckles. His beard is longer than I’ve ever seen it and his hair is all tangled, but there’s no mistaking it. The homeless drunk from the security footage is my husband. “Jesus Christ, he’s a mess.”
“Yeah,” Ethan agrees. “This was taken a few hours ago in a town about fifty miles from your house. He’s staying in a motel there under the name Norman Gates. Paid in cash, so there’s no credit card trail, but I’ve confirmed it with the receptionist. They are expecting Mr. Gates’ wife to show up and surprise him. They’ll give you the key to his room.”
“Wow. Thanks, Ethan.” I haven’t even considered how I would get into Wyatt’s room, but it looks like Ethan has it all covered.
“No problem. Look…” There’s a pause during which I’m ordering an Uber to get me home. Now that I can drive, I can finally stop using the app. “Are you sure about this, Amy?” Ethan asks, sounding concerned. “Wyatt is dangerous and if he’s drunk… Kayla would be gutted if something happened to you and I can’t let that happen.”
A memory of Craig slurring drunkenly and slapping me flashes in front of my eyes, but I push it away. Wyatt is not Craig. “He won’t hurt me. Drunk or not, I’m safe with him.”
“Okay. But what if he doesn’t want to talk to you? Have you considered that he might simply run away again? If he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve you, he might not be willing to even hear you out.”
“I have considered that, and I have a plan. Does ketamine do what I think it does?” I never thought I’d be asking for advice from a serial killer, but I guess this is my life now.
“Yes, but it’s difficult to obtain.”
My phone pinging with a notification lets me know my ride is approaching even as a car pulls over in front of the DVS. “I already have a healthy supply,” I reply, keeping my words vague enough not to arouse the driver’s suspicion.
Ethan laughs. “Ah, you found your husband’s stash? Well, I hope he’ll appreciate the irony of being taken down by his own drugs. Ketamine is fine. He probably has the laced version with accelerated onset, but if he doesn’t, be careful. It might take three to five minutes for the substance to take effect. A lot can happen in five minutes.”
“He won’t hurt me,” I repeat, certain of it. No matter what happens, Wyatt would never hurt me. “How much should I use? There wasn’t exactly a step-by-step guide.”
“Call me when you have it at hand and I’ll walk you through it,” Ethan replies, laughing again. “You know, this is normally not the kind of advice I supply to my clients.”
I snort. “Yeah, I can imagine. Thanks.”
“No problem. Just don’t get yourself killed. I don’t want to deal with a heartbroken Kayla.”
“Don’t worry. There’s zero chance of that happening. I’ll call you when I get home.”
Hanging up, I absently stare at my hand or, more specifically, at the ring now adorning my ring finger. Remembering Wyatt’s joke about not looking behind the loose panel behind the washing machine, I searched the place hoping to find something that would reveal where he’s hiding. Instead, I found drugs, money, and a small package addressed to Wyatt.Noticing it had been delivered the day after our wedding, I curiously looked inside the already open box and found this particular bomb. A wedding ring. A beautiful wedding ring in exactly my size, tucked in a hole in the wall behind a fucking washing machine.
According to the receipt, Wyatt ordered the ring on our wedding night and had it speed-delivered the next day. Judging by the opened package, he must have taken it out and then… What? Decided he didn’t want to give it to me anymore? Maybe he didn’t want to be married to me at all? Well, screw him. I am his wife, so this ring is mine and I will wear it. He can have the outline of it marking his face after I punch the bastard.
As you can see, I’m getting pretty good at this whole turning-pain-into-anger thing. And I have a lot of pain to go through.
At home, I check the duffel I’ve had packed since I called Ethan, confirming everything I will need is inside. With Ethan’s help, I prepare two syringes with the drug, with a dosage that will only knock out a man of Wyatt’s size for about an hour, safely stashing them in my pocket. I am not giving Wyatt a chance to run away from me again. Ever.
Chapter 59
Wyatt
Theterriblehangoverassaultingme the moment I open my eyes only reinforces the theory that I’ve died and gone to hell. “Fuck,” I groan as I realize I don’t have any painkillers at hand. I consider beating the headache with more alcohol, but my stomach roils violently at the thought. Damn. Since I rarely drink, I clearly have no tolerance. That will have to change.
Dragging my sorry ass out of bed, I spend a minute debating between going to the bathroom to vomit or braving the outside world to get some ibuprofen. Eventually, the thought of getting rid of the monstrous headache wins, and I head to the nearby gas station. After all, I can vomit outside just as well as in the bathroom. Two birds, one stone, that kind of shit.
The gas station store is dreadfully stocked, but they have some basic pain meds. Grabbing two boxes, I carry them to the counter and throw a fifty-dollar bill at the cashier before he can even ring the purchase. Glowering, he holds the bill up to the light, then swipes it under a UV scanner. Still not entirely convinced, he studies the markings on the bill for a longtime. Long enough to piss me off. “It’s not fake, dude. Just give me the fucking pills and keep the change.”
“Seriously?”
I’m probably grossly overpaying, but I don’t give a damn. It’s just money. I can always kill someone and make more. It’s not like I have anyone who would mind my profession anymore. “Yeah. Don’t suppose you have any booze?”
“Ginger root beer,” the clerk replies, smirking.
Yeah, I might throw up after all. “No thanks. Just the pills.”
“Alright.” Hesitating, he adds, “You do know the combination is bad for your liver and shit like that, right? Pills and booze? It’s going to kill you, man.”
