The Day of the Accident
Friday arrived, gray and wet. Jenny kissed Marco goodbye, her lips cold against his cheek.
“I’ll see you tonight,” she said. Her last lie.
By four o’clock, Tommy called.
“It’s done. Her car’s wrecked. But don’t worry, she wasn’t behind the wheel.”
Jenny was unconscious in Tommy’s van, drugged during what she thought was a final meeting. She would soon wake up in Marco’s basement. Melissa, meanwhile, lay staged in the wreckage, declared dead by authorities.
When the knock came, Marco was setting the anniversary table. Officer Bruce Jackson stood at the door.
“Mr. Christian,” he said gravely, “I’m afraid I have difficult news. Your wife was in a serious accident an hour ago.”
Marco’s performance was flawless. His face paled, his hand gripped the frame. “No. That’s impossible. She’s upstairs resting.”
“Sir, I understand this is hard, but—”
“No!” Marco cried. “I’ll show you.”
He led them upstairs. On the bed lay a feminine figure, blond hair on the pillow.
“See? She’s right here!”
But as they drew closer, Officer Jackson’s hand moved toward his holster.
“Sir,” he said carefully, “step back. That’s not who you think.”
The figure was a mannequin.
