by Tom Milani

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A digital camera with a telephoto lens sits on the passenger seat of my ten-year-old Corolla. I’m parked on a cross street facing a line of low cinder block buildings. It’s twenty-five degrees outside. Under the street lights, road salt sparkles like pyrite. Crusts of gray snow dapple the sidewalks. The few people who walk by turtle into their quilted coats.

Joyce is convinced her husband is cheating on her. A woman knows, she told me. In my office, she handed me a photo. Eddie is the very definition of anonymous: average height, average build, thinning hair, a few extra pounds. The only thing that stands out are his eyes. Too large for his face, they are kind. Like most women, I size men up, listening to that inner voice that tells me when it’s okay to let my guard down, and when it’s not.

He owns a furniture store featuring mid-century modern pieces. I used to visit the showroom once a week, admiring the clean lines of the sturdy platform bed that I planned to bring home one day.

Instead, here I am, waiting for my client’s husband to emerge with his lover.

* * *

When I can no longer feel my fingers and toes, I drive around the block, blasting the heater, before parking beyond the store. I angle the rear view mirror so that the front of the store is in sight. Another hour passes. It’s after closing, and still no sign of the husband. I stow my camera under the seat and get out of the car. The cold wind is bracing, but moving again feels good. The showroom is dark, except at the far end, where light bleeds onto the floor. The husband’s office, I know. I try the front door. It’s unlocked. I’d worry, except Eddie liked to leave it open for me when he knew I was coming. A bell attached to the frame tolls as I step inside.

As I approach the office, I notice the light isn’t the only thing bleeding onto the floor. The air smells of copper and smoke. I find Eddie on the carpet, his empty eyes no longer kind. On the couch where he and I spent our evenings together sits Joyce.

“I thought you weren’t ever going to come in,” she says. Her words are ice. Each syllable lands like a cube dropped into a glass.

* * *

“Why did you take the case, Erin?” she asks.

I look down at Eddie. “I was jealous.”

Her laugh is a bark. “That’s rich.”

I can see her point but can’t deny how I feel. How I felt. I face Joyce. The gun she’s been holding by her side is now pointed at me. Its barrel is an open mouth about to scream.

“What now?” I ask.

“You killed my husband in a jealous rage because he wouldn’t leave me. Then you killed yourself.”

No digital footprints connect us. She came to my office in person. She paid cash. She gave me a Polaroid.

She stands.

I step back, blocked by Eddie’s desk. Before I can recover, Joyce presses herself against me, the way Eddie liked to. She holds the barrel of the gun under my chin. I grab her hand. She’s as tall as I am, but I’m stronger, and I push the gun away.

* * *

I stumble outside, ears ringing. Snowflakes fall like confetti, fracturing my view of the Corolla. I gather snow from the windshield and press it to my face, scrubbing the skin clean, the snow so cold it burns.

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Tom Milani’s short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in several anthologies, including Mickey Finn: 21st Century Noir volumes 5 and 6. “Barracuda Backfire,” his novella, is Book 4 of Michael Bracken’s Chop Shop series. Places That Are Gone, his debut novel, was released on May 13, 2025. My socials: http://www.tommilani.com/; X: @tom_milani; Instagram: milanitom.

Photo by Kevin Solbrig on Unsplash