Steve Frech - Deadly Games

Emily isn’t a fan of being a trophy wife. In fact, she hates it and she’s most definitely not a fan of her husband. She’s talked about leaving him, but she loves the perks and she’s not in a hurry to part with them. Eventually, she began swinging from paranoid about being caught to “devil-may-care”. Sometimes, she would be overly worried about someone finding out and cancel plans at the last minute. Other times, she would rail about how much she didn’t care and we’d take ridiculous risks, like the time during one of my shift breaks when we had sex on the hood of a car on a side street next to The Gryphon. Then there were the times when we’d just go back to her place.

But we were sloppy and almost got caught at her house.

After that, she decided that we would only meet up at motels, and not good ones, either. In my opinion, I think it’s lame but after a world of fine Egyptian cotton sheets, marble floors, and a private wine cellar, she finds it a turn-on to meet at these “seedy” establishments. Whatever. I’m not going to say no to getting the chance to see her.

Which is why I’m already fantasizing about what I’ll find in room 37 as I pull into the Seaside Motel parking lot. It’s an L-shaped, single-story structure forever stuck in the 1960s, but it’s not without its charm. They’ve embraced the retro look and there’s a stunning view of the ocean across the road. Avalon is full of places like this.

I park in one of the numerous open spots. The air is heavy with the taste of salt, churned up by the low tide. I notice that there’s another gray Honda Civic just like mine occupying one of the spaces near the office. I don’t see her car, which is not a surprise. Like I said, since we were almost caught, she’s become much more paranoid. She always pays cash at the bar. She also bought a burner phone for us to text each other. She finds Uber and Lyft drivers that will accept cash to drive her to our hookups. There’s always a handful of them outside The Gryphon. They don’t want to split the fare with the rideshare company. They also don’t want to pay the taxes and their riders don’t want anything showing up on their credit card statements for their spouses to find. Emily also discovered that motels like the Seaside often don’t need to see your ID or make a record of your stay if you offer to pay double their nightly rate in cash. She’s become very good at making sure that her husband’s assistant won’t find something that will raise any red flags on her credit cards, which her husband pays, and that he won’t see anything in her bank accounts, which he controls.

I stroll down the row of numbered doors. Next to each is a large window. Some have the curtains drawn and are illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of a television but at this hour, most of them are dark.

I arrive at number 37.

The lights are on inside.

On the other side of this door, I’m going to find her on the bed, naked, lying on her side, head propped up in her hand. She’ll ask something like “What took you so long?”. That’ll be the extent of our conversation. I’m already anticipating her hungry touch, her skill, and reveling in the abandon that comes from two people who are comfortable with the fact that they are using each other for physical pleasure.

I push on the door, but it doesn’t budge. She normally leaves it open a fraction of an inch so that she doesn’t have to get up to let me in, but there’s a problem; the deadbolt is engaged.

What the hell?

I check the number on the door.

Yeah, this is room 37.

I lightly knock.

“Emily?”

There’s no answer.

Maybe she fell asleep.

I knock again. No response.

I take out my phone, dial her burner phone, and press my ear to the door. There’s the sound of a cellphone ringing inside. If she fell asleep, I’m hoping the call will wake her up, even though the knocking should have.

The call goes to the generic, automated voicemail.

I glance around. The Seaside Motel is quiet. There’s only the soft buzz of the lamps in the parking lot and the crashing of waves from across the road.

I’m about to knock again when my phone pings with a text message.

I don’t want to do this tonight.

Damnit.

Sorry I’m late , I text back. But it doesn’t have to ruin our evening.

I hit send.

I’m too tired , is her reply.

My thumbs fly across the screen. Okay, but can you please open the door?

There’s a long pause and then my phone pings again.

No. Leave me alone.

Great. She’s having one of those nights, but even on nights that she’s suddenly canceled plans in the past, we’d at least talk for a little bit.

It’s no good trying to get her to reconsider. She’s made up her mind.

So, that’s tonight down the drain. It’s a little weird but I’m not gonna waste any more time with this. If it’s not happening, it’s not happening.

Good night , I text.

She doesn’t answer.

Once inside my apartment, I head straight for the bathroom. I hop in the shower, scrub down, towel off, and climb into bed, not a little frustrated.

She’ll be back at the bar in a week or two, and we’ll pick up where we left off.

Still, that was odd.

She’s run hot and cold but that felt different.

Oh, well.

As I drift off to sleep, I think about what was behind that door, waiting for me …

Sitting across from Detective Mendez, staring at these photos, now, I know.

Even though there is a Post-it Note covering a section of the image, I can see Emily’s face.

Mechanically and in utter shock, I reach towards the photo.

“Mr. Davis, I’m sorry but you can’t—”

I remove the Post-it.

There’s Emily, just as I had envisioned her, lying naked on the bed, but her throat has been cut by an angry slash across her windpipe. Her lifeless eyes stare up at the ceiling. The mattress is soaked in blood.

“Mr. Davis!”

The photo is snatched away but the image is seared into my brain.

“I’m— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I stammer. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s my fault,” Detective Mendez says, replacing the photo into the folder. “I shouldn’t have shown you that.”

While he collects himself, I stare at the other photos which show the rest of the room; there’s her clothes placed neatly on a chair, her purse, keys, and cellphone on the table.

I’m able to choke down the bile in my throat, but my hands continue to shake. The beads of sweat that popped on my forehead have run down into my eyes. In all of this, there’s this strange thought in my head amidst the chaos that something was wrong about the photos; something other than the woman I was sleeping with lying naked on the bed with her throat cut. Something was missing.

“Mr. Davis? … Clay?” Detective Mendez asks.

Of course, I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him everything; the affair, the sneaking around, the motels, all of it but with everything that’s happened in the past thirty seconds, I’ve forgotten how to speak.

Wait. I know what was missing in the photo: Emily’s burner phone.

I check the photos again, to be sure. There’s no sign of it.

Which means whoever killed her took it and …

I suddenly remember the text I received as I was walking down the hall into this room.

My brain on autopilot, I reach into my pocket for my phone.

“Clay?”

“I’m sorry, Detective. I just need to check something …”

Detective Mendez may as well be on the other side of the world, and it’s a good thing that my expression is already at “maximum bewildered” because this text message, sent from Emily’s burner phone, has taken what was a surreal situation and turned it into a nightmare.