Page 59 of Hate to Love You
I’d been so distracted by the interview that I’d forgotten about the best part of what I do: The Obituary.
Learning my mark’s fate was always the best part for me, especially after all the effort I’d put into curating, trailing, and drugging the bastard.
Because I never see my marks actually die, I always have to stalk the internet or the news for the obituary to get confirmation. Until I know for sure, the suspense keeps me on the edge of my seat, and I treat it like a surprise.
Igor Ivanov’s obituary came up sooner than I thought it would, but then again, I didn’t really know much about him personally. However, from the article, and the fact that he’s made the front page, it appears he was a bit of a big deal in the business sector.
Finding a quiet spot in the sun, I stop and lean against the wall of the nearest building, my eyes trailing over the paper, digesting the words, ‘impressive career’, ‘massive loss to the charity scene’, and ‘leaves behind his young wife’.
I still wonder if the wife knew he was cheating on her whenever he could. Or that he was so cruel and sadistic to his mistresses.
My blood instantly heats just thinking about it, only further validating that he deserved the fate he got.
Frankly, I did his wife a service.
I fold the paper in my hands, tucking it back under my arm as I continue on my way.
When I get home, I’ll add Igor’s obituary to my collection. I like to keep a little box of souvenirs for each kill, either a printout of the obituary or the death certificate, but for “Front Page Igor” I’ll be keeping the entire newspaper.
Before I know it, I’ve somehow found myself walking in Central Park. I always did find this park peaceful. No matter the season, it’s always bustling, but this time of year and especially on a beautiful sunny day like today, it’s practically alive.
Young children play amongst the trees, their parents watching dutifully as their youngsters giggle and laugh, the fallen red and orange leaves crunching beneath their boots.
On the soft dry lawn, a law student sits reading, while a couple on a blanket sit closely together, cradling their hot drinks and listening to music softly playing on a portable speaker.
Intentionally, I head toward the Turtle Pond in the middle, which I always thought was funny, as I’ve never seen a turtle there.
Truthfully, I usually avoid it, but with how out of control I feel right now, perhaps it’s finally time to reclaim it, and take that control back.
The only time I’ve been to Turtle Pond was with Garrett, the day that he proposed.
It had caught me by surprise, as just the day before we had another one of our vicious fights. He’d thrown plates, smashed holes in walls, and stormed out of the penthouse.
I cried myself to sleep that night, my mind spiraling as to where he might be, or who he might be with, and what horrific fate awaited me whenever he’d return.
But the moment he walked through the door, he wasn’t angry, or violent. In fact, he was nothing that I expected.
He apologized for his behavior the night before and told me he wanted to make it up to me.
He took my hand, and led me all the way down here to Turtle Pond, where a wicker basket was waiting on a soft red blanket, and a few candles lit around us.
He was so romantic that day, I was completely blindsided.
Of course, at that time I wasn’t attuned to the fact that Garrett was clearly just playing another round of his “manipulation chess,” and I fell for it like the pawn I was.
Once he’d slipped those rose-tinted glasses back on, he dropped down on one knee, and asked me to marry him, promising to love me forever.
What a fucking joke.
I smirk, reminding myself that his ashes are now spread all over the city dump. Because that’s where trash belongs.
Pulling the paper from under my arm, I once again find myself staring at the headline.
Something about Igor’s death is sitting off with me, like a violin playing a chord just slightly off key. Perhaps it’s the thought that even after all my research, I still apparently had no idea that he was someone of affluence. And that someone connected enough to warrant the front page of the newspaper could very well warrant an inquest into his death…right?
I’m pulled from my thoughts when a soccer ball suddenly smashes into my leg, almost knocking me over. Bending down I pick it up, rolling it in my hands.
“Sorry!” A young boy calls over to me.