“What happens when we reach the top?”
“You’re going to jump.”
“What do you mean ‘jump’. I’m not jumping. It’s a long way down. It’ll kill me.”
“Well I’m not doing it, you can forget about that.”
“Don’t worry mate, you won’t have to actually jump. We’re going to push you off the edge. We just need it to look like you jumped.”
“Nobody’ll believe that. Why should they?”
“They’ll believe it. You’re depressed. Says so in your note.”
“The one in your jacket pocket. Explains everything. Now shut up and keep moving, we’re almost there.”
I peeked around the door into the shower.
There he was exactly as they’d said he would be. Stark naked, with a nasty looking gash above his right eye, his silly pink plastic shower hat on his head, soaking wet and quite dead. Impressive.
When I’d first contacted the company they’d assured me his demise would be made to look like an accident. They weren’t cheap, but finally being rid of that bore of a husband was worth every penny.
All I needed to do now was scream, act a little hysterical and phone the police.
My new life beckoned.
Photo prompt courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields at Friday Fictioneers.