Sheryl burst through the door into the motel room, her newly dyed ruby red curls bouncing along with each step she took in her black heels. "It's so exhausting pretending to care about people you could give two shits about." She flipped her hair over her shoulder, pinning Charlie with a sharp eye. He watched TV from the bed in his stripped boxer shorts. Sheryl threw her shiny knock-off purse in the chair then stood in front of the TV, frustration wrinkling the valleys of her aging face.

"I'm perturbed with you, Charlie."

"And why is that sweetheart?" Charlie angled his head to see the TV behind her and continued to flip through the ten working channels on the old box set. His hopes were set on watching the Playboy channel while Sheryl was at the Liao's funeral, but there was no cable in the rundown motel they chose this time around. Giving up, he tossed the remote on the nightstand and patted the spot next to him. Sheryl opted to sit at the edge of the bed, her red lips resting in a straight line.

"What is it this time?" Charlie asked, relaxed against the headboard.

"Why did I have to go to that stupid funeral, Charles?"

"Because everyone knows that those chinks couldn't stand me so that would have been in bad taste for me to show up."

"Why did you have to go and get rid of them?"

"Didn't know you cared about them," Charlie remarked cynically, lounging on the bed with disdain as he watched his ex-wife, whom he despised more than Diana.

Sheryl sighed and lay in bed next to him, resting her head on his bed of brown and gray curls. "Of course, I don't, babe. I'm glad they're dead if you're happy. She lifted her glossy pearls to him. "I talked with Diana after the service, and she said they caught the guy that ran them over."

Charlie kissed her forehead, unmoved by the news. The authorities assumed they had the right guy. That's how it generally went––they'd snatch up the guy who had the most DUIs in the neighborhood or the person who was last near the scene of the crime and hold him as a suspect. They'd catch a speeding car on a surveillance camera some place close by, and they would track him down. Of course, the driver would deny it, because. . . who wouldn't deny they ran over two pedestrians? Harry, who Charlie hired to complete the assignation of the Liao's was thousands of miles away by now?

"Don't worry, hon-"

Sheryl rose, her muscles tense. "They caught Harry. They're on their way back with him as we speak."

Charlie sat up and grabbed Sheryl by the arms in his callused and masculine grip. "You should have said that first, bitch!" He swung his legs over the bed, his fists curling into a tight ball. How the hell had they caught up with Harry? Right after he dispatched of the Liao's he drove the truck into Lake Bensen in North Carolina and then hopped on a plane to California. He booked another flight to Switzerland.

Charlie's eyes darted from wall to wall in the small room, his clasped hands together in deep thought before Sheryl's screeching voice penetrated his thoughts. "I told you we should have left them alone and disappeared together when they began the rape investigation on you."

"Shut up, Sheryl. I don't have time to listen to this crap of yours right now."

"No." Sheryl exited the bed and slipped back into her heels.

Charlie lifted his head, staring at her as she stalked to the door. He didn't need any more problems, nor was he in the mood to hear her bantering about the rest of his problems. "Once I get my hands on Diana's mini fortune," he said, "we can get the hell out of dodge." He opted to get dressed too, as he needed to get info on Harry and his expedition.

"You don't care about the money, Charles. The only thing that occupies that dusty old brain of yours is screwing her daughter seven different ways from Monday."

Charlie paused with one heavy leg in his pants and the other out. The thought of mounting that pretty little babe hadn't entered his mind today, but the fire was now lit thanks to his dear ex-wife.

He inhaled through his nose and blew out a huff of hot air as he slid into his pants. "Where are you going?" he asked. With one swipe of his hand across the bedside table, he snatched up his wallet and keys. Once in his pocket, he attached his holster and reached for his gun.

"Away, Charlie. Shit is about to hit the fan, and once Harry ties your ass to the killings, then I'm booked on accessory to murder. Screw that––maybe I'll seek to get a plea bargain." Sheryl was fickle. She loved Charlie, but she loved herself more.

He ran his tongue over his teeth and suddenly met Sheryl at the motel door. She clutched the handle, and Charlie noted the fear written across her face. That's right, she knew what he was capable of doing when he was peeved. He toyed with a curl that dangled before her eyes, "Are you threatening me?"

She swallowed hard; she hadn't realized how much she was pressing her back to the door until the peephole dug into the nape of her neck. "No. I—"

Charlie seized her by the throat, his grip trapping her airways. Sheryl wrapped her hands around his constricting hand, wrist, arm, anything she could claw at for a release. "Please, Charlie," she choked.

Her cheeks heated with a pink tint. Charlie tightened his fingers around her glands and leaned into the crook of her neck.  "Don't forget who's running the show, Sheryl." He looked into her watering and frightened eyes, savoring her fear, allowing it to linger in the air between them before finally releasing her from his grasp. "Don't show your face around me for the next month."

Sheryl collapsed onto the floor, her breaths coming in sharp gasps as she tried to regain her composure.

Charlie's glare cut sharply through the tension, a silent command for Sheryl to move aside. She quickly complied, scrambling out of his way. He strode to the door, opened it, and slammed it shut behind him without so much of a backward glance.

***

Charlie slammed the door with a loud thud, but thankfully no one was home. Diana and Trechial were at work, so he had time to blow off steam. How did that idiot get caught? Charlie thought. Or did he mutter it out loud? It was hard to tell. The line between actual words and loud thoughts was beginning to blur.

 He stalked into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. After returning to the living room, he settled into the recliner and methodically kicked off his shoes, one at a time, he unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned a few buttons from his shirt, popped the top off the beer, and downed half the can. He sat in his regret of not having gotten rid of Harry instead of letting him flee the country. He should have killed him after he slain the Liao's. Charlie never left trails.

Never.

And the only reason he didn't take the Liao's lives himself was almost so obvious he could laugh: he knew he would be the prime suspect.