Motive

He wasn’t exactly sure when it had happened. Had he stumbled across the book? Had the book stumbled across him? He couldn’t remember a time without it, before it, a time when it wasn’t stuffed in his back pocket or cradled in the crook of his arm. What he did know, quite certainly, was he loved that little black book. He could whisper his secrets to it, let his sadness drip onto the pages and then, like magic, he’d feel better.

He had thought the black book to be a product of his own imagination, connected to his very soul, his deepest desires, for sometimes he felt the book nudged him in a particular direction, toward a decision, a person. The book made him bolder, braver, more reckless, even. The book guided him to take a day trip to see the ocean, to make his coffee a little sweeter than usual, and, on one occasion, to drop into the seat in front of her in the library, a place they usually avoided each other.

She was staring intently at a somewhat bulky envelope on the table in front of her, which was odd, as usually she was grading papers or was so deeply invested in one book or another that she barely noticed the passing of time. But, today, there was the envelope, only the envelope.

He sat down quite heavily and her eyes flicked up to register his presence and then down again.

And so they sat.

Eventually, she took a bracing breath, and swiveled her head upward, looking unflinchingly into his eyes.

“I found it, you see,” she said, as if that made all the sense in the world.

“Well, alright,” he countered, “What is it?”

“It’s an envelope.”

“I can tell it’s an envelope,” he said gesturing to the general eye area of his face, as if confirming he possessed the ability to see. The little black book in his hand burned with curiosity.

She looked around them a bit, as if gauging the character and eavesdropping talents of the patrons closest to them, then gestured for the little black book.

He paused but a moment before handing it over and watched as she flipped to a blank page and wrote, before sliding it back to him.

“It's an envelope that contains, by my estimate, roughly $20,000,” the page read.

He gasped, reeling back - “Twenty-thou-!”

But she cut him off, glancing down to the book and back up.

“Where on earth did you find an envelope that contains roughly $20,000?” he wrote back, with as much force as could be mustered by a stubby pencil on a page.

She rolled her eyes at the practicality of the question. “The better question is, what are we going to do with it!” she whispered.

He could see then, in her eyes, that she thought him sitting across from her meant something. She instantly returned her gaze to the table, but he saw it drift from the envelope to the ring on his finger, to the lack of ring on her own, and to the envelope again.

He pulled his hand from the table and dropped it into his lap, the other picking up the little black book and flipping idly through it. His attention caught on a section in the notebook he’d filled out frantically, panicked at the thoughts he’d pulled from his head and dumped onto the pages. The little black book glowed with approval as he read it.

“Let’s go talk somewhere more private,” he stood and held a hand out to her.

She paused, but that was the only indecision she’d allow before taking his hand and allowing him to lead her to the more secluded alley outside the library.

He leaned against the wall, lazily, like there wasn’t a desperately needed $20,000 in the envelope his mistress was holding. “The book gave me an idea, you know.”

“An idea of what to do with the money?” She said. Such hope in her voice. She understood the power of the little black book, you see, knew what it meant to him.

“Oh, something along those lines. An idea of what to do for the money, more like.”

“For the money?” Hesitation had replaced hope.

“Yes, yes, for the money. You’ve really provided me a unique opportunity. I didn’t have a reason when I did it the first time, but this? Oh, this is different. Anyone could argue that $20,000 is quite the motive.”

“Motive? Motive for what?” she put a hand on his arm as he backed further into the alley. “Motive for leaving your wife, do you mean?”

He smiled at her, teeth flashing in the shadows, and put his hand over hers. “Have you ever wondered where my wife is?”

The smile in her eyes dropped completely then, as she tried to take a step back, but his hand had her firmly clamped to his arm. She swallowed nervously, and his grin grew wide.

“You remind me of her. So terribly trusting. With anyone, really, not caring to see who it was you gave your trust to so willingly. Always assuming a friend and never a monster. Ah, well. If only you’d learned your lesson,’ he whispered, as he made his move.

~

It took longer than expected for him to notice the absence. He had thought the hollowness came from what he’d done, had assumed it would pass. No, it wasn’t until he checked his pockets, his coat, his bag, that he realized what was gone. His so dearly beloved little black book.

The book lay not far from her body. The sickening red spatter on the pages perfectly matched the red of the lights illuminating the alley. The pages blew in the wind until a gloved hand reached down to pick it up, flipping the pages until the book spilled a secret, perhaps on accident. A secret longing to know what a hand would feel like wrapped around a neck or two.

The police officer paused, taken aback by what he could have sworn was pride coming from the little black book in his hand. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened.

Had he stumbled across the book?

Had the book stumbled across him?

He couldn’t remember a time without it, before it, a time when it didn’t want to be stuffed in his back pocket or cradled in the crook of his arm.

What he did know, quite certainly, was he loved that little black book. He could whisper his secrets to it, let his sadness drip onto the pages and then, like magic, he’d feel better.