31

I’m just half a block away and I still haven’t been able to figure out how to let Claudia know I’ll be coming in the door. No doubt she has set the alarm and I don’t want it going off and waking the entire neighborhood at almost five in the morning. There is about a minute before the thing blares, but that means I need to hope she hasn’t dead-bolted the back door, or the door to the garage.

There really isn’t a choice, though. I need to see my boys, get my boys. Take my boys. And no one is going to be able to stop me, that I can promise. Between the Boones’ house and ours there are plenty of streetlights illuminating the street, something missing in Lakeside, so it seems lighter, happier here. I will appreciate this place more now, I vow to myself. At least enjoy it until I sell. Enjoy the final hour here until we leave. I check my watch. There isn’t much time left before sunrise.

In the driveway I turn off the headlights. Again, I don’t want to scare Claudia by shining my headlights into the guest bedroom. Who knows how a druggie would react to that? Our guest room is above the garage, around the corner from the boys’ bedrooms. I decide against opening the garage door, as I know that sound will alert her. Instead, I will check the back door. She is lazy, Claudia. Perhaps she didn’t lock it at all.

I put the car in Park and get out of the car. It’s nice to be home. Slowly I walk to the back door. I take a moment to admire the green grass and the trimmed bushes, the tulips blooming in celebration of spring. I look to my right, at my parents’ former home, dark and filled with sleeping strangers. Good old Buck didn’t know that part of the story, I realize with a smile. He has underestimated me, as usual. He shouldn’t.

The alarm isn’t set. The light of the panel is green. This is brilliant news, even if it is news that would lead me to fire Claudia under normal circumstances. These aren’t normal circumstances so I’m grateful for her lack of competency, the druggie. I push the key into the lock and hear it click; I twist the knob and walk into my home. I flip on the back hall light and I’m momentarily thrown off by the simple fact that the back hall table, an expensive antique that was a gift from Mia’s parents, is gone. This is the spot where I place my keys every day after work. But it is not there. I am certain it was here this morning when we left.

This is odd. Why would Claudia move a table? I wonder. I walk slowly, quietly down the hall and arrive in the kitchen. Here, everything seems to be in order. I swallow a growing feeling of unrest, of concern. There is no mess here, no dishes. No signs of little kids. No blocks. No booster seat at the kitchen table.

Where is Sam’s booster seat? I leave the kitchen and head for the stairs, taking them two at a time. I start to go to the master bedroom, but think twice and instead quicken my steps to Mikey’s room. I quietly turn the handle of his closed bedroom door, and push it open gently.

The room is completely empty.

“What?” I say aloud before hurrying through the Jack-and-Jill bathroom connecting the boys’ rooms. I throw open the door to Sam’s room. It’s empty. No furniture, no Sam.

Where are my boys?

“Claudia!” I yell, marching to the guest room. There’s no one in the guest room, though. The door is open. The furnishings—furniture, lamps, paintings, even the small Picasso nude from Mia’s parents that we hung in the room to impress guests, everything—are gone.

I stand there, in the empty guest room, in shock. For a moment. I rub my hand through my hair before pulling my phone out of my pocket. I dial Mia’s number. My call rolls to voice mail.

“Mia, what have you done with my boys? Where is my furniture? My antiques? My artwork? Where is my Picasso? The Alice Schille beachscape on the wall, it’s gone, too. I need an explanation. Call me immediately,” I say. My voice is calm. I am in control. She will be as alarmed as I am. She will obey me.

I walk at last into the master bedroom. The bed is still there, as are the side tables. The walls are bare, gaping holes where art used to hang. The happy family portrait, the four of us posing in the gazebo at the lake, that was hanging just inside the door is missing, too. I touch the spot where it should be, where it always was. Who could have done such a thing? Violated our private spaces?

I storm into the walk-in closet. Only half of the room is full. All of Mia’s things are gone. On the bathroom counter there is a red envelope with Paul written on it in Mia’s writing. I grab it, feeling the thick texture. This is a love note, of course. And, perhaps, an explanation. Maybe we are moving somewhere together, and this is all a big surprise.

I tear open the envelope and pull out the letter.

Dear Paul,

By now I’m sure you’re anxious to know what’s going on. It’s hard being one step behind, I know. Trust me. Because of you, I’ve learned. So welcome home, and welcome to your new reality.

The boys are safe, in hiding with my parents, and so am I. As you have been told, there must be no attempt to find me, or the children, and no action threatened or taken against anyone who helped me. All we want is to live in peace, away from you. This day, everything that was orchestrated, was the only way I could make sure of that.

Since you are reading this, you have already signed the agreement. I cannot be sure what else has happened. If you have hurt me, or Buck, my parents will press charges. They know what you are capable of doing. I’ve told them everything I know. And it is a lot. I’m not going to waste time here outlining everything we’ve discovered about you, your past and your present. You know who you are, what you’ve done. I can promise you one thing, though: your future will not include us.

Please know that the boys and I are out of your life forever.

Don’t lie anymore, Paul. So many people are watching you now.

Mia

She has taken away my whole life. I grip the red envelope in my hand and begin to rip it to pieces, but instead I crumple it into a ball. Her letter of betrayal I will keep. It will remind me never to trust a woman, ever. I fold Mia’s stupid note into a little square, shoving it into my pocket. I cannot believe she got the upper hand. I can’t believe I allowed this to happen, allowed her to win. It was a foolish mistake, and it won’t happen again.

Everything will be fine. I’m a survivor. I will simply pivot and start over. Nobody can keep Paul Strom down, not for long. Sure, she’s taken my boys but I can make more. There are plenty of women who want what I have, who would like to be Mrs. Strom. Not Gretchen, she’s poor, and certainly not good old porn-watching Caroline. Lois is married, and not rich. I believe I’ll set out for greener pastures. I don’t need Disneyland to find the happiest place on earth. No, I just need wealthy women, preferably young widows. Palm Beach, here I come.

I walk back into my closet and pack my favorite lightweight, warm weather suits and some bathing suits and shorts. I’m like the Phoenix, rising again. I change into a pink polo—perfect, right?—and some comfortable jeans and driving loafers. I’ll look the part of a successful businessman on holiday. I’m just a lonely man trying to recover after losing his entire family—wife, two sons and the in-laws—in a terrible plane crash last month. Private jets, you just never know. And no, their bodies haven’t been recovered yet. It’s tragic.

I check my reflection in the full-length mirror, and glance at my watch. Sunrise is in fifteen minutes. I need to get going before daybreak, before all hell breaks loose on our street, too. I grab my designer suitcase and make my way down the hall.

There is someone standing at the top of the stairs. What the heck? I shove my hand in my pocket, satisfied the pen is there. But still I’m on edge. I don’t have a long-range weapon. I rely on the power of surprise. And right now, there is nowhere for me to hide.

“Hands up where I can see them,” a male voice says as a flashlight blinds me. I see the end of a gun pointed at my chest. “Officer Clark, Grandville police. We received a call about a burglar, breaking and entering.”

“I’m the homeowner. I live here,” I say. Who the hell called the cops? Who knows I’m here? Mia does. I should have finished her off long ago. So much for being patient with her demise.

“I’ll need to see some identification. My partner, Officer Miles, will extract your wallet. Don’t move.”

As I stand in my almost empty home, my hands raised, my pockets violated, I know this will not be the end. I cannot let Mia win. I will not let Mia win. I should have finished her off, her and Buck. The officer pulls my ID out of my wallet and shines a flashlight on it.

“His address on the ID checks out. But what’s all this?” asks the second officer who is violently pulling the cash out of my back pocket. He’s taken Mia’s love note out of my front pocket, too. I hear the pen fall to the floor. The cop ignores it as I fight the urge to bend and pick it up, perhaps jab it into his thick sweaty neck. I examine Officer Miles’s face, scarred and pockmarked from bad acne episodes. Simply hideous. He could never have another life; his options are so limited in this world compared to mine. Maybe I should end his suffering.

“I asked you a question, sir,” pock-face Miles says.

“Ah, that is a love note, from my wife, Officer. It came sealed in a red envelope, the color of passion. It’s special,” I say. “It’s personal.”

He tosses Mia’s note to the ground. “I’m talking about this,” he says, waving the wad of money I borrowed from the inn in front of my perfectly smooth, masculine face. My five-o’clock shadow has become a small beard by now I’m sure. It has been a long day. He’s still staring at me, now examining the bills as if he’s never seen so much in one place. Poor fellow.

“It’s cash. Money. I know that you don’t make much, but that’s what it is,” I say. Really, the caliber of people they have protecting and serving us is ridiculous.

“You’re so funny, asshole,” says Ugly Face. He’s fortunate to work the night shift. He would scare small children in the daylight.

I shrug as the cop keeps my wallet and keeps his hands around the cash, stepping back from me. He’ll pocket my money, I know he will. It won’t even make the police report. The other cop has the gun trained on my heart, which I now realize is beating rather quickly.

“We had a report of a theft up at a place called Lakeside, at the hotel there. Someone robbed the cash drawer tonight. Know anything about that, Mr. Strom?” Officer Clark asks.

Oh, this is ridiculous. I am not going to be tripped up by a petty theft.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “Can I put my hands down?”

“Weren’t you just there, in Lakeside, sir?” the ugly guy asks. Why does he insist on calling me sir, like I’m an old man? Sure, he’s young but look at that face. I’d rather be me. “They relayed your license plate number. We know it was you, sir. That you were there. There’s a camera in the lobby.” Interesting. I didn’t see that. Those cameras are getting smaller every day. Looks as if Scott will be off the hook for this one, after all. Fine. Everything is beatable, escapable. You just need to use your brain, and mine is second to none.

“Put your hands behind your back, Mr. Strom. We’re taking you to the station,” Officer Clark says. What choice do I have? It’s two of them against me, and I’m unarmed. I know what you’re thinking. I handled Buck deftly, although I should have finished him off. Could I take these two? Most likely. But I’ll be released as soon as I post bail. Why make a fuss now? Better to go to the station, get these peons off my back, climb in my car and drive off into my future the next day. Heck, I’m already packed. I look longingly at my suitcase, a Rimowa dark gray, very stylish, and decide to comply.

They handcuff me and lead me out of my house. Thankfully it’s still dark. Thankfully my boys did not witness this embarrassment. I’ll never tell them about it either, when I see them again. And I will see them again.

As I slide into the back seat, Officer Clark pushes my head down, roughly.

“Hey,” I say. “Don’t make me file a brutality charge.”

“I’d zip it if I were you, Mr. Strom,” Officer Clark says before slamming the car door. He reappears in the driver’s seat, as Officer Miles slides into the passenger seat. I see now that there are two more squad cars parked on the street in front of my house.

“Hope you enjoyed your last day of freedom, scumbag,” Officer Miles says.

I will not go to prison for petty theft, no matter what Ugly Face wishes for. The prisons are not for people like me. They are for dumb druggies and inner-city people. Mia and Buck won’t tell them anything else, because they want me to just go away. And I will, at least for now. I know how badly I hurt good old Buck. Maybe Buck is dead. One can only hope.

Suddenly, the car is rocked by an explosion and the sky briefly fills with a flash of light. I allow myself a smile at the perfect timing.

“What the hell?” Pock-face is alarmed. He hops out of the car and disappears into the night. The two squad cars that were staked out in front of my house flip on their sirens and drive off. When Miles returns he’s out of breath, so excited. Nothing bad ever happens in Grandville so this is big news.

“A house just down the street exploded, man, I called the fire squad and they already were dispatched. You should see it, Clark. The house is like totally gone. Gas leak or something. Stuff we read about, man, hope everybody got out.”

Despite the childish description, I’m pleased. As he climbs back in the car, two fire engines and two emergency squads blare down the street, full lights, loud sirens. They won’t need the paramedics, but only I know that.

“We have to take this guy in,” Clark says in a commanding voice.

“Yes, all the neighbors will be awake now. Let’s get moving, shall we? I’d like to deal with this little misunderstanding and get back to my life,” I say. And it’s true. Up and down my street the neighborhood is coming to life, lights flipping on, housewives in bathrobes and men in boxers spilling out of their happy little homes. Tragedy is such a magnet, isn’t it? These are my neighbors, drawn like moths to a flame, or in this case, drawn to a gaping foundation where a tidy home used to be. Soon, these same neighbors will be gossiping about me, about our marriage falling apart. I don’t like failure and this, my empty, loveless house, feels like defeat.

“Buddy, with the size of that explosion, your visit to the station won’t even make the news,” Pock-face says. As if I want to make the news.

“What a shame,” I remark. But he is wrong. I am important. Our family’s deconstruction will be the talk of the town. After Greg and Doris Boone’s unfortunate slip into poverty, that is. “Can we go now?”

Officer Clark laughs as he flips on the bright lights of his squad car and we roll out of my driveway and into the still-dark night. Through the window of the police car I see two bright stars, the cat eyes of Scorpio’s tail, rising in the sky.

Mia’s a Scorpio, did I mention that?