Cellar Door

“He’s clean,” he says to Jennifer.

She’s seated on a cement bench, surrounded by three other men, just as large and intimidating, in black suits. They’re dressed appropriately for the scenery. Even Jennifer is wearing an all-black pantsuit and big black shades. She’s a widow, after all.

“This is a tacky request,” Jennifer says. She stands and hooks her purse over her shoulder. “I take it there’s a reason you wanted to meet here, Mr. Easton. Some point you wanted to make.”

I pick up the canister. My chest ignites with that familiar ache as I spot the marble gravestone just a few feet away. “My sister is buried here,” I tell her. “I find it highly appropriate.”

She frowns and fans away the two men standing guard over her. “Give us some privacy, gentlemen.”

The man to her right looks unsure, but he does as ordered. I wait for them to step aside before I say, “Her name was Jules. She was only sixteen.”

Pushing her sunglasses atop her head, Jennifer inspects me closely, a sever furrow between her brows. Her eyes scan the scars on my face. “I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Easton. But holding my husband hostage won’t bring her back.”

Fire licks the back of my neck. I tamp down the rage and swallow my practiced rebuttal. She’s in control. I need to let her be in control.

“Is that him?” She nods to the canister.

I nod once in reply.

“Let’s get on with it, then.” She pulls her phone from her oversized purse and taps the screen. She goes through a series of screens before she sighs. “Ten million, as requested.”

I pull my phone from my back pocket and click open the banking app. The funds have been deposited into the account. Ten million dollars. That easy. Most likely pocket change to Mrs. Myer.

“Now,” Jennifer says. “I’d like to have my husband back. Do you know how difficult it is to take over your husband’s finances without a body?” When I say nothing, she sniffs hard. “Right. I imagine you do. That’s why we’re here.”

I set the canister on the grass, and the guy who likes to hover inspects it first, then unseals the lid. “Looks legit, Mrs. Myer.”

He wouldn’t know the difference if it was ashes from a fireplace. “Then we’re done here.” I turn to leave, and the guy in the gray suit steps in front of my path.

“I’m not a forensic scientist, or whatever,” Jennifer says. “I’d be a poor business woman if I handled all my transactions on someone’s word.” She snaps her fingers, and two of the men take up either side of me.

“This wasn’t the deal,” I say.

I’ve only watched Jennifer Myer from afar. Clips on the Internet, shots of her during interviews. I’ve seen her interact on a topical level with people around her—and she’s every bit the title she’s earned, except for now. For a split second, I see the guise drop, and the ruthless nature she keeps repressed peeks through.

Her smile is devious as she circles me. Like a shark in the water, she scents an easy kill.

This wasn’t the deal we made. That deal required a trade, where I’d bring her dead husband’s ashes to a destination of my choosing, a public setting, and I’d receive millions for my effort. A payoff. A settlement for my pain and suffering.

Then I’d take the money and disappear.

This is only believable to people like Jennifer, who value one thing more than life. Money.

“The deal, Mr. Easton, will be fully transacted when I receive verifiable proof that these remains are Milton’s.” She ticks her head toward the luxury cars, and the men take hold of my arms and begin escorting me that way. “Until then, you’re welcome to be my guest.”

A mock laugh springs free. “Are those accommodations located in a morgue?”

She walks ahead. “Says the man who stole a body and desecrated it. I should think that sort of man would feel right at home in a body locker.”

The barrel of a gun pushes against my ribs as I’m shoved into the backseat of the silver Lexus. The man follows me inside, taking the seat beside me, as he keeps his gun aimed. Jennifer seats herself in the passenger seat, and her driver starts the car.

As we head out of the cemetery, I glance through the back windshield. The black BMW follows a car’s length behind. I settle against the backseat. “I saved the teeth,” I tell Jennifer. No reaction from her. “That’s your verifiable proof.”

“Even so, I’ll need to match dental records.” She slips on her shades. “Once that’s confirmed, you can leave Seattle.”

I smile. “Of course.”

She twists around, angling herself so that she’s looking directly at me. “What is it that you want, Mr. Easton? I mean, besides money.”