CHAPTER 41
Steven
November 2010
“That was stupid, Steven,” he told himself. Maybe he wasn’t close to clever after all.
“Why did you terminate Mona’s cell phone number?” That was the easiest way to track her ass. No telling where his car was, but even if the police found the car, that wouldn’t lead him to Mona. She hadn’t used his credit cards in over six months. He didn’t know where she banked.
“Fuck!” He could only blame himself for being that dumb.
Sitting in his recliner, he guzzled a half bottle of whiskey. His cell phone interrupted his intent to polish off the other half.
He answered, “Hi, Mom. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Hey, Buttercup. Happy Thanksgiving. Your dad says the same. How you doing? You having dinner with Mona, I hope.”
He loved his mother. Never wanted to disappoint her or his dad.
“Ma, we talked about this two days ago. Six months didn’t cut it. Mona is gone and she’s not coming back. What am I gonna do now?”
He felt like a child asking his mother for marital advice, again. He could transfer title of the car to Mona’s name. Nah, stupid idea.
“A lot can happen in forty-eight hours. No use in crying over spilled milk. It’s time for you to move on. File for a divorce. That way if she starts charging up your cards, you won’t be responsible. You’ve got to protect your credit and the Cunningham family name. Once your divorce is final, get yourself another woman. I don’t understand these men sleeping around with a whole lotta women ’cause their woman done left them. You ever thought about dating that news reporter girl, Katherine Clinton? I know she’s spoiled already, but she’s raised that kid the same way I raised you, and that says a lot about her integrity. She’s the marrying kind.”
Divorcing Mona wasn’t happening. He had too much invested to let his marriage go. Plus, Mona had his gun. Oh, shit! What if she left it in the car and the police found his bloody gun and his car?
Steven dropped the cell in his lap, covered his ears, then screamed, “Fuck!”
“Buttercup! Buttercup! You okay?” his mom shouted. “Don’t let that devil grab ahold of ya. You not going crazy, are you? Answer me! Richard! Come here. I think Buttercup is falling apart! We might have to go back to California.”
Picking up the phone, he quickly composed himself. “No, don’t do that. I’m okay, Mom. I just jammed my finger,” he lied.
“Go rinse it off and put some Neosporin on it. You still got that job at the oil—”
“Yes, Ma, yes,” he lied again. And what good would ointment do? “Let me call you back, Ma. I love you. Bye.”
Steven ended the call and drove to Mona’s house. Quickly he picked the lock on the back door, entered her kitchen, then locked the door behind him.
He’d try to remember some of the forensic tips Mona had taught him. There was no use in him dismantling the stove’s hood; he’d find nothing inside the vent. She was smarter than taking her own advice. He rolled the refrigerator six inches from the wall, inspected the back, nothing unusual. There were no secret compartments on the cabinets, inside the light fixtures, or under the grooves of the travertine floor.
Hurrying to the bedroom, he checked the mattress, frame, headboard, and nightstand. He didn’t discover any important information. He opened Mona’s closet. There was a chest on the top shelf. As he scooted forward what he hoped to be a plethora of treasures, the wooden box slipped. A dozen or more dildos banged on his head, then fell to the carpet.
“Fuck this.” Steven kicked the vibrators out of his way, then left the way he’d come, out the back door.