wife…or ex-wife, maybe? I printed
that one because she looked familiar and I was trying to remember where I’d
seen her before. Now that I think about it, I swear I saw her in front of the
house one day. She was probably coming to visit you. Never mind.
She skipped a line and
the handwriting that followed appeared to be even more agitated, more rushed.
It’s been two days since
I started my note to you. I read back over what I’d written and man, am I
rambling. I should get all of this out before he finds me.
I never feel safe. Do
you understand what that’s like? I keep expecting to hear a knock on my door
one day and see him standing there.
Who, you ask? Or is it
whom? I can never figure that out.
Ready for this? I stole
two million dollars from a broker at Goldman named Harry DeShazo.
Don’t believe me? Look
under the garden out back. I buried two black duffle bags. If I’m dead, and
if they’re still there, the money’s yours. I won’t need it. Put your kids
through college, whatever. That seems so morbid, but I’ve accepted the fact
that dying is inevitable, whether it happens fifty years from now on a beach in
Maui or he slits my throat in my living room tomorrow.
Why? That’s a long
story. The short version is—we had an affair. I found out there were many,
many others, so I stole the money and meant to share it with his wife.
Payback, right? But he found out before I could, almost killed me, and I ran.
So here I am.
I should be hiding in
some country in South America, to tell you the truth. I’d be pounding
margaritas if it weren’t for my dad. He’s had a rough time since Mom died.
Breast cancer. Tell your mother or your wife to get checked, even if she’s
your ex-wife. I mean it! It’s horrible to watch someone go like that when
they could’ve prevented it with a little due diligence.
God, this sounds like
such mumbling nonsense. I can’t even think of what kind of help I’d actually
ask for. What could YOU do for me? I think if you’d been just a little
less…eager…it would’ve been nice to have a shoulder to cry on. Somebody that
might keep an eye out for strange cars or notice anything out of the ordinary
going on outside my house. Somebody other than that crow across the street.
That Epstein lady. What a wench, huh?
I knew it! See?
Everyone hates her.
I’ve been kinda paranoid
lately. What I mean by that is, some weird things have been happening. Hang
ups on my home phone, like somebody’s checking to see if I’m here. I’ve
noticed a black sedan following me lately and I think (I’m really stressing the
word “think”) that it might be a cop. I went running last week, over by the
park, and the same car was parked outside of a house along with two normal cop
cars. I mean, like, patrol cars. Could be my imagination, but it’s almost too
coincidental to ignore.
The thing is, I wouldn’t
put it past Harry DeShazo to show up here and kill me himself. He’s ruthless.
But he’s also smarter than that. He has money. Lots of it, so more than
likely, he’s paid someone to find me. What better way than a dirty cop, huh?
I guess my point is
this…if I’m dead, and you found this in time, you can make up for being so
weird by figuring out who did it, whether it was DeShazo himself or someone he
hired. Get him behind bars! He’s dangerous, and not just for killing me, if
that’s what happened.
And let me ask you one
last favor. Please go check on my dad and make sure he’s okay. He knows who
you are, and he wanted me to tell you thanks for recommending the goat cheese.
He’s so sweet. He does this thing every year on their anniversary where he
serves dinner like she’s actually there with him. Breaks my heart.
If you’re reading this,
Step-Hen, thank you. Do what you can, but only if you want to.
If it’s anyone else
reading this, I
that one because she looked familiar and I was trying to remember where I’d
seen her before. Now that I think about it, I swear I saw her in front of the
house one day. She was probably coming to visit you. Never mind.
She skipped a line and
the handwriting that followed appeared to be even more agitated, more rushed.
It’s been two days since
I started my note to you. I read back over what I’d written and man, am I
rambling. I should get all of this out before he finds me.
I never feel safe. Do
you understand what that’s like? I keep expecting to hear a knock on my door
one day and see him standing there.
Who, you ask? Or is it
whom? I can never figure that out.
Ready for this? I stole
two million dollars from a broker at Goldman named Harry DeShazo.
Don’t believe me? Look
under the garden out back. I buried two black duffle bags. If I’m dead, and
if they’re still there, the money’s yours. I won’t need it. Put your kids
through college, whatever. That seems so morbid, but I’ve accepted the fact
that dying is inevitable, whether it happens fifty years from now on a beach in
Maui or he slits my throat in my living room tomorrow.
Why? That’s a long
story. The short version is—we had an affair. I found out there were many,
many others, so I stole the money and meant to share it with his wife.
Payback, right? But he found out before I could, almost killed me, and I ran.
So here I am.
I should be hiding in
some country in South America, to tell you the truth. I’d be pounding
margaritas if it weren’t for my dad. He’s had a rough time since Mom died.
Breast cancer. Tell your mother or your wife to get checked, even if she’s
your ex-wife. I mean it! It’s horrible to watch someone go like that when
they could’ve prevented it with a little due diligence.
God, this sounds like
such mumbling nonsense. I can’t even think of what kind of help I’d actually
ask for. What could YOU do for me? I think if you’d been just a little
less…eager…it would’ve been nice to have a shoulder to cry on. Somebody that
might keep an eye out for strange cars or notice anything out of the ordinary
going on outside my house. Somebody other than that crow across the street.
That Epstein lady. What a wench, huh?
I knew it! See?
Everyone hates her.
I’ve been kinda paranoid
lately. What I mean by that is, some weird things have been happening. Hang
ups on my home phone, like somebody’s checking to see if I’m here. I’ve
noticed a black sedan following me lately and I think (I’m really stressing the
word “think”) that it might be a cop. I went running last week, over by the
park, and the same car was parked outside of a house along with two normal cop
cars. I mean, like, patrol cars. Could be my imagination, but it’s almost too
coincidental to ignore.
The thing is, I wouldn’t
put it past Harry DeShazo to show up here and kill me himself. He’s ruthless.
But he’s also smarter than that. He has money. Lots of it, so more than
likely, he’s paid someone to find me. What better way than a dirty cop, huh?
I guess my point is
this…if I’m dead, and you found this in time, you can make up for being so
weird by figuring out who did it, whether it was DeShazo himself or someone he
hired. Get him behind bars! He’s dangerous, and not just for killing me, if
that’s what happened.
And let me ask you one
last favor. Please go check on my dad and make sure he’s okay. He knows who
you are, and he wanted me to tell you thanks for recommending the goat cheese.
He’s so sweet. He does this thing every year on their anniversary where he
serves dinner like she’s actually there with him. Breaks my heart.
If you’re reading this,
Step-Hen, thank you. Do what you can, but only if you want to.
If it’s anyone else
reading this, I
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