M to the Third

  M to the Third

  by Kalen Rice

  Copyright 2016 Kalen Rice

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

  or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  Maybe I Did It

  Marcy

  Mr. Wright

  About the Author

  Maybe I Did It

  He walked toward the patio area of their basic theme-park hotel room and stopped by the bed. He looked to his left to see his wife, Charlotte, with a large gash gushing blood from the back of her head. He watched the blood flow ever so slowly into the carpet and toward the wall, where it almost blended into the maroon wallpaper. The corner of the white satin comforter slowly soaked up some of the blood. There was a creak behind him and he turned around quickly.

  Standing before him was a woman holding a lamp with blood on it.

  "Lorraine? Wait, how? Lorraine?"

  "Why didn't you pick me up that day, Tom?"

  "Lorraine, I'm so sorry. I was running late in a meeting."

  "It was our anniversary, Tom."

  "I know. But wait, how are you here?"

  "I am not here, Tom. I am everywhere."

  "But, but, bu-"

  "Even the day of your so called late meeting. I was there while you were meeting with another woman at the hotel across from work."

  Tom had lied to everyone that day. He wasn't running late in a meeting, he was running late fucking his intern Charlotte while his late wife waited at the airport for hours.

  "Why did you do this, Tom?"

  "Lorraine, please, I'm sorry."

  "How could you do this to our kids?"

  "I never meant to, Lorraine."

  "Goodbye, Tom."

  She handed the lamp to him and disappeared into the air. There was a knock on the door. The peephole revealed two men in police uniform. He took for the fence and climbed over it and ran to meet his kids and led them to the exit of the theme park, he saw several police officers blocking their path.

  Tom walks to a stall in the men's room. The lock on the stall door was stiff and barely worked. He sat on the toilet and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it at the end of each stroke. He got up to wash his hands and face. He walked out of the bathroom to meet his kids, but was shoved to the ground by a police officer.

  "Don't resist me, Mr. Hall," said the officer.

  The officer slapped handcuffs on Tom's wrists. He was escorted to the exit and thrown into the backseat of a cruiser. Tom was taken into a precinct where there was a questioning room waiting for him. He was placed in a seat and handcuffed to the table. A tall, handsome man walked in the door.

  "Mr. Hall. I am Detective Miller. Tell me about your wife's death.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Don't play games with me. We know you did it."

  "Where are my kids?"

  Detective Miller stood up straight as his eyebrows raised. "Your kids?"

  "Yes, I was with them before I was taken away."

  Detective Miller nodded at Tom and walked out the door. On the other side he talked frantically to another officer and then he returned to the room as the other one quickly ran off.

  "Tell me what you did, Mr. Hall."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  The officer slams his fists on the table. "God dammit, tell me what you know!"

  "I don't know anything, sir."

  #

  The couch Tom sat on wasn't very comfortable. There were degrees from different schools plastered on the walls. A man in a sport coat and slacks sat in a chair across from him.

  "Hello, Mr. Hall," said the man.

  "Hey, doc."

  "So this is your 30th day here and our 4th visit, have you had any breakthroughs with what we've been talking about?"

  Tom stared blankly at the doctor. He held his hands out. "Can I have my journal, please." The doctor handed him a journal. Tom flipped through the pages and tapped a page with his index finger. "I remembered the walls of the bathroom were the same color of the taxi Lorraine died in."

  "And how does that make you feel?" asked the doc.

  "Angry."

  The doctor jotted a few notes on a legal pad. "Why did you do it, Tom? You had to have known you'd be caught."

  "Why did I do what?"

  #

  Tom was in an empty white room. There was a small desk next to his bed. He was laying on a bed with white sheets. A nurse walked in the room and gave him a glass of water and a small cup with a pill. He took the pill and gave both cups back. She then handed him a pen and a journal. Inside the book, he wrote:

  Day 91,

  I still haven't heard from the children. They were found but I can't see them. Every meeting with the Doc, he asks why I killed my family. I explain to him that I didn't, it was my late wife Lorraine's revenge for cheating on her on the night she died in an accident. They think I'm crazy, but they're really the crazy ones. My children aren't dead; I saw them just minutes before I was taken from them. Sometimes I dream that maybe I did it. I see Charlotte looking at me as I hold a lamp and the kids staring down the barrel of a 45, but that's just because they're trying to convince me I did.

  The nurse takes the journal and pen when he is finished and leaves him alone, once again, in the dull, white room.

  Marcy

  Marcy Sampson, a young, beautiful blonde woman, was working her normal lunch shift at the diner. The diner was small, the neon on the sign only worked on one side and all the seats were covered in the same red leather material like all the other diners. The walls were covered in film pictures, everywhere from actors and directors to movie posters. The day started off slow, Hollywood wannabes came in and out with attitude that she gave right back. That was the highlight of her day until he walked in. The man that would change her life. Tall, handsome, wearing a suit and tie, actual Hollywood success, this man sat at her booth and greeted her with a big white smile.

  "Hello, how has your day been?" the man asked.

  "Same as always. Been dealing with crabby customers. What about your day, Mr??"

  "Jameson. Jordan Jameson. You can just call me Jordan. And you are?

  "Marcy. Marcy Sampson."

  "Well it's lovely to meet you, Marcy."

  Jordan hadn't stopped smiling since she walked to the booth. Marcy kept playing with her pen, apron and hair. She jolted suddenly.

  "I'm so sorry. Would you like something to drink?"

  "Don't apologize. But I would love a coffee, please."

  Marcy stumbled away while Jordan watched her in awe. She returned promptly with coffee with a tray of creamer and sugar.

  "I'll drink it black, but thank you," said Jordan.

  "If I may ask, why the fancy get-up?"

  "It's my daily get-up, ma'am. I work with the studios as a director."

  Marcy let out a small sigh.

  "Don't flip your wig, now. I promise I'm not like most of the others that I work with."

  "I'm sure you all say that."

  "I'm sure many of them also see you as nothing more than a paper shaker, but not me. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life."

  Marcy stared for a moment. Her eyes began to swell slightly.

  "No
, I'm not."

  Marcy walked away. She stormed through the back door and outside. She took a cigarette out from her apron and lit it, furiously. She sat and tapped her foot rapidly while puffing quickly on the cigarette. She finished and walked back to the booth where Jordan was still sitting in shock.

  "Why do I feel that you're so sincere?"

  "Because I am."

  "Well, either way, what would you like to eat?"

  "What's good?"

  "The burgers are the best in town."

  "Then I'll have that. With some fries, please," said Jordan, smiling and winking at her.

  "And I'd like to ask something of you," he said.

  "What might that be?"

  Jordan folded his napkin and placed it on the table. He stood and moved close to Marcy. He grabbed her hand softly.

  "I need an actress. I want you to be in my movie."

  Marcy didn't move. She stared blankly out the window. She slowly reached to her forearm and pinched it.

  "This is real. Why me?"

  Jordan motioned for Marcy to sit down at the booth. He looked at her. Deeply. Lovingly. Intensely.

  "Because, Marcy, you're the perfection I need for this film."

  Mr. Wright

  A cool breeze blew through the curvy, hill-filled roads of Kentucky's countryside. The night sky was filled with stars and a moon that had a tint of red to it. Gary sat in the backyard of his country home next to a fire. Jeff sat beside him with a bottle of whisky in his hand.

  "Everyone inside is waiting for the birthday boy to come back in," said Jeff, handing the bottle to Gary.

  "I've had this same party every weekend for so long. Tonight doesn't even feel any different," Gary said, taking a swig from the bottle. "I just want something different."

  "Well come inside then. There's a surprise for you."

  Gary sighed and stood up. Jeff led him to the sliding back door of the two-story white home. They walked inside of the house and Jeff gestured toward the living room. The two walked into the heart of the party and all of their friends were quiet. Facing away from them on a red leather couch was a man wearing an army uniform. His hair was neatly cut and was a mixture of grey and black. The man stood and turned toward them.

  "Dad? Is that you?" said Gary.

  Gary walked to his father and offered a handshake, but Mr. Wright pushed it away and pulled him in for a hug.

  "I know it's been a few years and I'm sorry, son," said Mr. Wright. His army uniform had four stars that show his General ranking.

  "Dad, I'm just happy to see you. I know civilian life is hard for you, but I'm so glad that you took some time to see me," said Gary. "This is probably the most perfect timing you could've had."

  "Son, I'm not back for long, but I want to make our time count. What are you doing tomorrow?"

  "I'm free. You want to go to that old diner we went to when I was a boy?"

  "That sounds like a grand plan, son."

  Jeff walked to Gary and put his arm around him. "Not too shabby for a birthday gift, eh?" Jeff snickered.

  "Dad, want to have a couple drinks with me for my birthday?"

  "I've not had a drop of alcohol in two years. I'm sorry, but I can't change that tonight."

  "Of course, sir," said Gary. "You're more than welcome to stay."

  "I think I should get to the hotel. It's been a long day," said Mr. Wright. "I'll pick you up at nine. Enjoy the rest of your birthday."

  Gary shook his father's hand and walked with him to the car to see him off. Gary returned to the house and gave Jeff a hug. "Thank you. That's the best gift I've ever gotten."

  "That's what a brother from another is for."

  The night went on and Gary celebrated his birthday in a shower of alcohol. He awoke on the red couch with his feet propped on the back cushions. There was knocking on the door and he looked at the time. 6:30. He answered the door to see Jeff. His hands were shaking and his eyes were puffy and red.

  "He's gone, Gary. Gary, he's gone," he said.

  "Who's gone, Jeff?"

  Jeff grabbed Gary by the shoulders and shook him. He pulled Gary close and whimpered. "Your father, Gary. He was in an accident after he left."

  Gary grabbed his head and shook it. "No, no he can't be. I just saw him a couple hours ago."

  Jeff grabbed Gary's head to stop the shaking. "He was hit by a drunk driver a mile from his hotel. Gary, I'm so sorry."

  Gary stared blankly past his friend. His face was still and his skin was pale. He slowly turned away from Jeff and walked toward his kitchen. He opened up one of the cabinets by the sink that was filled with liquor bottles. He grabbed the front bottle and stared at it for a moment. He looked to the wall about ten feet from him and he threw the bottle. He grabbed bottles one-by-one and threw each of them at the wall. When there weren't any more bottles to throw, Gary placed his palms on the granite counter top and bent over the top of it, breathing heavily.

  About the Author

  After living the majority of his life in Ohio, Kalen Rice moved to the Orlando area and is earning his MBA in Creative Writing at Full Sail University. He loves to write stories that readers can immerse themselves within. He has a flash fiction piece called "Deployment" that has been published by Down in the Dirt Magazine. Kalen loves to watch movies, play video games, and even jam with his band.

  You can reach Kalen by e-mail at: [email protected].

  You can follow him on LinkedIn