The Cruel Ever After by Ellen Hart

and a red cotton shirt. Her lush brown hair spread loosely across her shoulders. She’d aged, for sure, most notably in the wrinkles starting to form at the edges of her eyes. He figured she dyed her hair, although if she did, she’d never admit it. She was as vain as the next woman. It would no doubt surprise her to learn that a certain amount of womanly vanity made her more attractive, not less. She could be generous, sometimes even kind, but at heart Chess saw her as a Gordian knot. Convoluted. Moody. Private. That’s what had fascinated him years ago, and apparently still did. Someday, perhaps, someone with the skill of an Alexander would forgo trying to untie her and instead take a sword to the workings of her heart. He wished he could be around to see it.
    “I suppose I should get out of here, let you have your house back. I want to thank you again for letting me stay last night.”
    “Were you able to get your stolen credit cards canceled?”
    For a moment, he was thrown. “Oh, yeah,” he said. He’d almost forgotten last night’s lie. He touched the abrasions on his cheek. On the way over to her house, he’d found a brick in an alley and scraped his face, then rubbed some gravel in his hair. It added a note of authenticity to his tale of woe. “Everything’s been handled.”
    “Are you hungry?” she asked. “I could fix you some breakfast.”
    “Are you still a great cook?”
    “That’s the prevailing opinion.”
    He sniffed the air. “Coffee?”
    “It’s set on a timer. Can’t start the day without a caffeine fix.”
    “Sure,” he said, smiling broadly. “Breakfast would be great.”
    “And if you need to stay another night, that’s fine with me.”
    “Can I get back to you about it later in the day?” As he followed her into the kitchen, the phone in his hand—the blackmailer’s cell—began to vibrate. “You go on,” he said. “I’ve got to take this.”
    He flipped it open and said hello, pushing out the screen door and walking a few yards out into the grass.
    “Morning.” The words were spoken in a deep baritone, but it sounded fake, as if the guy were intentionally lowering his voice.
    “Ed?”
    “That’s me.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Just consider me a friend.”
    “Funny.” He stepped over to a tree and stood with his back to the porch door. “I didn’t kill that guy.”
    “Right.”
    “I’m not lying.”
    “Whatever you say. But I cleaned up your mess and I still want the money.”
    “We need to meet, talk this over.”
    “Nothing to talk about. You pay me or I send the photos to the police.”
    “I don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”
    “Come on. You’ve traveled all over the world. You’ve got to be a man of means.”
    A conclusion he’d drawn, no doubt, from looking at the stamps on his passport. “No money unless we talk first,” said Chess.
    Silence.
    “Did you hear me?”
    “I heard.”
    “So?”
    “How much money do you have?”
    Chess relaxed a little. This guy wasn’t a pro. “My financial situation is complicated. Look, whoever you are, I promise I’ll pay you something. It’s worth it to me. I didn’t kill Dial, but you made a potential mess go away, and for that you deserve something.”
    “How much?”
    “That’s what I want to talk to you about. Meet with me and we can firm up a price.”
    “Is this a trap?”
    “Absolutely not.”
    “Because if you try anything, those photos go straight to the police. You can’t just walk away from a murder scene, you know.”
    Chess pressed a fist to his mouth to stop himself from laughing. The guy was such a pathetic amateur. “What did you do with the body?”
    “It’s safe.”
    “I don’t care if it’s safe. I want to know that it’s gone. Buried in the woods where nobody will ever find it. Or weighted and dumped in a lake.”
    “I took care of it. I’m not stupid.”
    That remained to be seen.
    “Listen, buddy, you don’t tell me what to do. I tell you.”
    “I’m just