Scooby

I sat in the dark for almost two hours before Stanley Morter entered his previously safe and secure home, seated in what felt like an expensive chair located in the corner of his bedroom. This room, like the house itself, was way too large for just one person but Stanley was clearly the kind of guy who liked to flaunt his wealth. He was also the kind of guy who’d kill to amass more.

True to her word, Sierra helped me override Stanley’s security system within seconds. She then hacked the front door keypad, giving me access to the home without leaving any signs of a break in. For my plan to work, I had to be a ghost. I’d made sure to cover every track I lay and left my boots hidden outside. I wore gloves and a wool beanie and avoided making contact with anything I didn’t have to. I would leave no trace. “What the fuck? Why is this off?” I heard Stanley Morter grumble from downstairs as he furiously punched at the keys on the alarm’s control panel. “I pay out the ass every month for this god dammed security system, and this is what I get for my money?”

I froze momentarily, fearing Morter might have someone with him, but after a few moments, it was clear he was talking to himself out loud. I didn’t need any unexpected guests arriving to this little private party. The plans I had were for Stanley Morter and Stanley Morter alone.

“This is all I fucking need,” he groaned as he walked up the stairs, clearly agitated by more than the disabled alarm. “And why the hell hasn’t Barnes called me yet?”

Stanley reached his bedroom and hit the light switch on his wall.

“Sorry, Stan, but Gary Barnes won’t be joining us tonight,” I said just as the lights came up. Revealing me, along with the silver, pearl-handled Colt .45 I was pointing straight at him.

“Holy shit. You scared me! W—what are y—you doing in m—my bedroom?” Stanley stammered.

“You didn’t listen very well during our phone conversation, so I thought maybe I’d have better luck communicating with you if we spoke in person,” I replied.

Stanley’s eyes darted to the alarm panel on his bedroom wall.

“It’s all been disabled. No panic buttons to push, no safe room to hide in. If you reach for your phone or a weapon, I’ll shoot you. If you call out for help, I will cut out your tongue and then shoot you. Do you understand?”

Stanley nodded.

“Good. Now, I’d like you to sit down and join me for a drink,” I said, pointing to the bottle of the Balvine fifty-year old which sat on the nightstand between the chair and the bed. “I hope you don’t mind. I found this downstairs and thought we’d crack it open for this special occasion.”

“What do you want from me? M—money?”

“You know something, Stan. Even if I didn’t know anything about you, I’d know you came from money. You wanna know how I’d know?”

“Sh—sure,” Stanley said, visibly shaking as I kept my gun on him.

“Because you’re not a very good listener. People who work hard, the ones who make their money from the ground up, are always excellent listeners. For instance, I’ve told you several times that I’m not interested in your money. I’ve also told you to stay the hell away from Rowan Samuels. And now I’ve told you to join me for a drink, and wouldn’t you know it? You’ve ignored everything I’ve said. Now, sit the fuck down.”

Stanley did as he was told, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. I stood up and handed the bottle to him. “Drink,” I said.

Stanley put the bottle to his quivering lips and took a sip.

“Jesus Christ, Stan. This shit’s sixty-thousand bucks a bottle. Well, I guess you’d know that.” I laughed. “Come on take a real swig,” I said, tilting the bottle to him, causing him to cough as booze spilled into his mouth and down the front of his shirt.

“Enough,” he said, gasping for air.

I pulled back the hammer of my colt and pressed the muzzle against Stanley’s temple.

“I’ll tell you when you’ve had enough. Now, drink.”

Stanley took another swig as I continued, “Let’s talk about your friend, Gary Barnes.”

By this time, Stanley was halfway through the label, so I had him cork up the bottle.

“Take these,” I said, handing him a pen and piece of letterhead paper from his home office.

“What for?”

“Because, genius. I want you to write something down. You’re going to write an apology.”

He frowned. “W—what?”

“I don’t remember you stuttering so fucking much the last times we spoke. Is something the matter with your speech as well as your hearing?” I pressed the gun hard against the top of his head.

“Ow, okay, I’ll write whatever you want,” he whimpered. “Just p—please don’t kill me.”

“I promise I’ll let you live if you do exactly what I tell you to do. Okay?”

Stanley nodded. Tears and snot streaming down his face.

“Earlier tonight, Gary Barnes came into Rowan Samuel’s house with the intent to rape and kill her. The whole thing was supposed to look like some random home invasion. A robbery gone wrong. You paid him to do that, didn’t you?”

Stanley nodded.

“Even after I told you to leave her alone?”

“It’s fifty-million dollars, man. Don’t you understand? That money rightfully belongs to me and the only way I can get to it is if Rowan Samuels is dead.”

“Yeah, about that. How did you even know about the fifty-mil? Didn’t your father’s attorney say it was ten-grand?”

“Lining the pockets of an attorney is always easy, especially when you promise them a cut of the pie.”

“Ah,” I said. “So how much of the pie did you promise Acker?”

“Ten percent, but I’ll cut you in for twenty if you let me go.”

I chuckled without mirth. “Jesus, you’re a fuckin’ moron, Stanley.”

“What is it to you, anyway? You didn’t even know that bitch existed until I tried to hire you.”

“I told you to stay away from her and now you’re gonna apologize like a good little boy.” I nodded to the paper and pen. “Now, write.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Keep it simple,” I replied. “Just write ‘I’m sorry,’ and sign your name at the bottom.”

Once done, I had him stand up and place the note on the nightstand while I grabbed my duffel bag.

“Alright. Let’s move,” I said before leading him out of the bedroom, through the hallway and to the grand staircase, which overlooked the foyer.

I opened the duffel and handed Stanley one end of the heavy nylon rope I’d grabbed from my workbench at Rowan’s place. I was in the middle of installing the swing and was using the rope as temporary support lines, so I’d know how much chain I’d need.

“Rope? What’s this for?” Stanley asked nervously.

“Tie that end of that rope right here,” I said, motioning to the stair railing.

“What the hell is this?” Stanley asked, his hands trembling as he tied the rope.

“Just make sure the knot is good and tight,” I said, before pulling the other end of the rope from the bag. Stanley’s eyes fell when he saw the noose I’d fashioned.

“Y—you promised you’d let me live,” he protested.

“A promise I’m going to keep. But you need to do everything I say first, remember?”

Stanley nodded in compliance once again.

“Good, now put this around your neck and step onto the stair rail.”

“What? No way. No fucking way. Please, please don’t make me do this,” he cried.

“The note’s not enough. I want a video. Video of you up on that rail, ready to hang yourself over how sorry you are. This will prove that you promise you will never ever try to hurt her again. This will show her that you fully understand what will happen to you if you so much as come near her.”

“You’re gonna fucking push me over the edge,” Stanley sobbed

“I promised I’d let you live, and I promise I won’t push you over the edge, now get up on that rail now or I will shoot you.”

Stanley’s knees knocked as he made his way onto the rail. His legs straddling the wooden banister, his knuckles white as he held on for dear life.

“I’m gonna fall,” he cried.

“No, you won’t,” I assured him. “I’ll hold on to the rope as you stand up. I’ll be your anchor and you’ll be fine. As soon as you’re up, I’ll hold on to the rope with one hand while I film you with the other.”

“I fucking can’t, man. I’m afraid of heights.”

“You afraid of bullets?” I challenged. “Stand up or you die now.”

It wasn’t until Stanley stood up on the rail that I could see he’d pissed his pants.

“Okay. I’m up, I’m up. Take the video. Take it now before I fall,” he begged. His legs visibly trembling underneath him as I kept the rope taught.

“Sure, one more thing first,” I replied, before stepping forward, causing the rope to go slack.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Stanley wheezed as he struggled to keep his balance. “I’m gonna fall.”

“Careful,” I said, taking a half step back allowing him to regain his balance. “Don’t fall, and if you do, don’t fall forward. ’Cause I’ll shoot you and make sure you die slow.”

“You promised you’d let me live,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I did, but I never said for how long. Besides, I’m not gonna kill you. Gravity is.”

I dropped the rope to the floor, leaving Stanley Morter’s life in his own shaky legs.

“You sonofabitch. You planned this to look like a suicide,” he said. “The scotch, the letter, the n—noose.”

“I warned you not to fuck with me and I warned you not to go near Rowan. You didn’t listen.”

“I’m listening, n—now, I swear. P—please don’t let me hang. Don’t let me die. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

“You did this to yourself.”

“P-please, I—”

As he begged for his life, Stanley lost his balance, causing him to fall backwards, his arms outstretched to me as he did. He dropped about eight feet before he reached the end of the rope. His neck snapped immediately, and his lifeless body swayed like a pendulum back and forth over the grand marbled foyer.

Stanley was right, I’d staged his death to look like a suicide. A half-empty bottle of rare, valuable scotch in his bedroom next to a vague note written in his own hand, and then of course, the hanging itself. He did recently lose his father, after all. Grief stricken, Stanley came home one night to his empty home, disabled the alarm so no one could see his death, got blind drunk and hung himself. That’s how I made it look and that’s exactly what the cops and the media thought happened. And why not? There was certainly nothing to connect me to the scene, and the cops never had reason to suspect foul play.

* * *

Rowan

Scooby had been gone for hours. Or, at least, it seemed like hours, and I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin. Lord was on alert, pacing beside me, feeling my anxiety despite my attempts to control it. I felt bad and wished I could figure out a way to calm down, but I’d already taken my anti-anxiety meds and I couldn’t risk taking more.

Needles had come and tended to Gary before several of the other men had removed him from my home and cleaned my bathroom so well, it was like he was never there.

Another thirty minutes passed and then I heard a pounding on my door, so I rushed to it and pulled it open, nearly bursting into tears when I caught sight of Scooby. “Oh my god, honey, what happened?”

“Stanley will no longer be a problem,” he said, walking inside.

“What does that mean?”

“Just leave it there, Twinkles, okay?”

I stared up at him.

“All in or all out,” he pressed.

I closed my eyes. “Fine. I’ll leave it alone for now.”

He cupped my face, kissing me. “Thank you.”

“Can we go to bed now?”

“Yeah, baby. Gonna hit the shower, then I’ll be right there.”

I nodded and followed him into my room.

* * *

“I’m not sure I can take an entire Saturday away from the diner, Scooby,” I said, wiping down a menu before dropping it into the wooden box attached to the counter. “Plus, what would I do with Lord?”

The lunch rush was finally over, and Scooby had invited me to a family day at his club. However, it was on a Saturday, typically our second busiest day of the week next to Sunday, which made it impossible for me to be gone.

“You can bring Lord. And technically, it’d be a Saturday and Sunday morning,” he said.

“Then, it’s a hard no, honey.”

He paused his floor sweeping and leaned against the broom. “Don’t you think it’s time to hire some help?”

“Yes, yes, I do,” I said with a sigh. “But that’s not going to solve the immediate Saturday problem.”

“I can help Dusty clean tables,” Gizzard offered from his place in the corner booth by the window. It had become his spot and although he said he was only there for Dusty’s desserts; it wasn’t lost on anyone he didn’t show up when she wasn’t working. “We got a couple o’ recruits who could slap on aprons and wait tables for ya, so you could go to the party.”

“That’s true, Gizz,” Scooby said with a slow smile.

“No,” I said, firmly. “I’m not making Dusty and Monty supervise untrained, rowdy bikers just so I can go party with my old man.” I couldn’t stop a grin. “As much as I love saying that out loud.”

“Sweetheart, Monty and I can handle a couple of rowdy bikers,” Dusty countered. “You should go to the party.”

“You really wouldn’t mind taking on Saturday and Sunday alone?” I asked.

“We would not,” Monty yelled out from the kitchen.

“You admit to listening to loud music your entire life, so, how do you still manage to have the ears of a bat?” I called back. I heard his laugh and turned back to Scooby. “Looks like I can make Saturday.”

Scooby set the broom against the table and closed the distance between us, pulling me in for a far too close to rated-R kiss.

“Crew,” I admonished, pushing against his chest.

He laughed, holding me tighter. “You’re gonna need to get used to PDAs, Twinkles. It’s old lady code.”

The bell over the door sounded, indicating customers, and I gave his side a pinch. “People are here to eat, honey, can I please get back to work?”

“For now.” His hands slid to my butt, and he squeezed. “I’m gonna make you do some real work later, though.”

I shivered. “Can’t wait.”