Chapter 3: Plotting My Own Demise

Monday morning at work, I couldn’t focus. The weekend’s events kept playing on a loop in my head. Why would my mother-in-law, Abbie, and Reverend Bobby Bill think I would allow myself to become a cuckold—and tolerate their affair?

I found myself preoccupied with feelings of embarrassment and betrayal, which significantly hindered my ability to focus on developing a retirement strategy for a local business owner. I noticed I was repeating myself, which understandably irritated the client. To cover for it, I explained that I simply wanted to ensure they had a clear understanding of the plan. In hindsight, I was surprised they agreed to move forward, given how poorly the meeting went.

The remainder of the day was filled with back-to-back presentations, leaving me no choice but to set aside thoughts of the weekend and concentrate on the clients ahead. It was a challenge at times, but I managed to get through it. Things nearly came undone when an elderly client requested a strategy that would allocate some of his assets to support Reverend Bobby Bill’s megachurch. My blood pressure spiked the moment he mentioned the name. I maintained my composure, assured him I would prepare a suitable plan, and committed to delivering a proposal for his review later in the week.

That evening at dinner, I said little, letting Abbie carry the conversation with enthusiastic updates about the wonderful work Reverend Bobby Bill praised her for in the women’s ministry. I offered the occasional grunt at the appropriate moments to create the illusion I was listening to her idle chatter. Internally, though, I was simmering. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that the Reverend’s admiration had less to do with her ministry and more to do with her “ministration” in a position he likely preferred—if I had to guess, the missionary one.

At bedtime, I continued to ignore her chatter, eventually rolling over and feigning sleep just to silence her. She finally took the hint, turned off the light, and settled in herself. I, however, remained awake—eyes fixed on the darkness, mind racing as I obsessed about what I should do.

“Of course, I didn’t come up with a single viable course of action. I did, however, manage to rule out any option that would leave them with my assets and me behind bars. So, violence was off the table. But there was no way in hell I was going to let my cheating wife, her manipulative mother, or that sanctimonious Reverend benefit from everything I’d worked so hard to build.

That’s when it hit me—this wasn’t the kind of problem I could solve in a ten-minute brainstorming session.

I began my brainstorming session in the shower Tuesday morning. I ran through several scenarios, each more elaborate than the last, but none brought me any closer to the outcome I desired. What I truly wanted was the total ruination of Reverend Bobby Bill—and to be rid of my cheating Abbie and her mother.

I didn’t want to hurt my father-in-law, Miles. As far as I was concerned, he was innocent in all of this. Oblivious, perhaps—but not complicit.

What I envisioned in my mind—at least, it was just a fantasy at the time—was my disappearance under suspicious circumstances, with carefully planted clues pointing squarely at Abbie, her mother, and Reverend Bobby Bill as the culprits. It wasn’t a new scenario; I could recall several cases where a cheating spouse and their lover had attempted to do away with a spouse.

In this imagined scenario, I vanished without a trace—but not without leaving behind a trail subtle enough to raise suspicions and ignite curiosity. A smear of my blood type on one of Abbie’s prized kitchen knives. A few flecks of blood on the tailgate of Bobby Bill’s Land Rover. And, most crucially, a conversation in which I “confided” my discovery about what really transpired at Abbie and Bobby Bill’s so-called weekend conference.

I already knew exactly who to tell: Abbie’s friend Emily Crumm—the serial adulteress and queen of town gossip. She was practically the anchor of the local swinging set. And if anyone could make sure that information spread, it was her.

For some reason, that part gave me the most satisfaction—knowing my wife would be exposed by a key player in the very game she’d chosen to play. I could already picture the headlines: “Homebody’s Disappearance Revealed by Self-Confessed Semi-Professional Swinger. Adulterous Wife and Defrocked Minister Accused in Mysterious Vanishing. Details at 6.”

That daydream nearly made me run a red light. I probably would have, if the oncoming traffic hadn’t blared their horns and snapped me back to reality. I made a mental note to be more careful in the future when letting myself get distracted. No sense getting killed while plotting.

I picked up a small pocket notebook at the dollar store—something compact and easy to carry, easy to conceal. I needed a place to jot down ideas as they came to me, and lately, they were coming fast and furious.

One afternoon, I saw a man on a motorcycle, loaded down with packs and a sleeping bag strapped to the back. I took note. It seemed like an easy way to disappear—efficient, quiet. With a helmet on, a rider could slip through the world unnoticed. Unless someone recognized their build, no one would give them a second glance. The face hidden, the details blurred—just another shadow in motion.

I drove past a short-term storage facility and realized it would be the perfect place to stash a motorcycle and the supplies needed to disappear. That went straight into the notebook, too. Tucked away behind a roll-up door—no questions asked. Just a number on a lock and a clean getaway, waiting in the dark.

One Saturday, I spent the day at the library, poring over everything I could find about motorcycles and long-distance road trips. Every detail that seemed even remotely useful made its way into the notebook—routes, gear, fuel efficiency—anything that might matter when it came time to disappear.

After the library, I stopped by a local motorcycle dealership and asked about different models, trying to narrow down which one might suit my needs. I kept it casual, as if I were just curious. The most important question I asked was about safe riding—specifically, beginner training courses. They directed me to a few sponsored schools in the area. That, too, went straight into the notebook.

I’d gathered so much information that I had to buy more of those pocket notebooks—filling them faster than I’d anticipated, each one packed with details I couldn’t afford to forget.

At the library, I started Googling on one of the public computers and dug deeper—this time into how to disappear. The internet is a strange and wondrous place. It didn’t take long to find former intelligence operatives—ghosts themselves—offering up scraps of tradecraft: how to vanish without a trace, stay invisible, live off the grid. I filled notebook after notebook with what they were willing to share.

Eventually, I’d filled so many notebooks that I had to stop by a big-box office supply store and pick up a lockable file box just to keep them organized. I stashed it in my home office, tucked beneath the desk—out of sight, but never out of reach.

The only time Abbie ever went in there was to clean—dusting, vacuuming, nothing more. She wasn’t the type to snoop. As long as the bills were paid and she had money to spend, she never asked questions about what I kept in that office.

I picked up a road atlas too—something simple, nothing digital—and kept it with the notebooks. Now and then, I’d take it out, spread it open, and run my finger along routes that led to nowhere in particular. Quiet places. Out-of-the-way towns. The kind of places you go when you don’t want to be found.

Six weeks after the so-called ‘conference in Chicago,’ I quietly began putting my plans into motion—no announcements, no sudden moves, just small, deliberate steps forward.

The first step was renting a mailbox in a nearby town—far enough to stay out of sight, but close enough to manage. I used a fictitious company name for anything tied to the plan: bank statements, government forms, or anything else I couldn’t risk showing up at my front door.

The clerk at the post office seemed indifferent, like she’d been counting the minutes until closing. My presence barely broke the monotony—no questions, no second glances. I paid in cash. Quiet, simple, unremarkable. Exactly how I needed it to be.

I was fortunate—the small town had a row of rental storage units tucked behind a cluster of weathered buildings. One afternoon, I casually asked about sizes and pricing, and quickly found what I needed. I paid in cash, securing six months upfront. No paperwork tied to my name. No reason for anyone to remember me.

Over the next couple of weeks, I made quiet rounds across the greater Columbus area, stopping at big-box stores spaced far enough apart to avoid any pattern. I bought only a few items at a time—outdoor gear, durable clothing—small, forgettable transactions. Just another face in the crowd of weekend shoppers.

Everything I bought went straight into the storage unit—a stash for when disappearing shifted from theory to reality.

I used my knowledge of investments to set up an account with debit card access. Every detail was calculated—correspondence, statements, and cards all directed to the PO box. The account was under my name, but no one locally would know it existed or connect it to anything.

The system was in place and would stay that way—until I needed it.

Along with my growing collection of notebooks, I began stashing cash—not just for emergencies, but for a specific purpose. It would be vital during the first few weeks on the road, helping me stay off the grid. More importantly, though, it was intended for an eventual purchase—one that would leave no local paper trail.

Everything had its place. Everything had a purpose.

While life at home carried on like nothing had changed, Abbie had no clue what I was really up to. She thought her rendezvous with Reverend Bobby Bill was a well-kept secret—totally unaware I knew all about their afternoon love fests, and that I was about to pull a Houdini and vanish into the void.

When my disappearance went public, and word of her affair with the ever-charismatic Bobby Bill tied them together as co-conspirators, the wheels would come off their adulterous bus—spectacularly. That would be my parting shot. A little gift, wrapped in scandal and delivered right to their doorstep.

As part of my planning routine, I checked the motorcycle classifieds several times a week, searching for the perfect one. I visited a few, but none felt quite right. Then, three weeks in—after scouring listings daily—I found it.

There it was, listed for sale: a 2013 Kawasaki KLR 650 with fewer than four thousand miles. Complete service records, recently serviced, and ready to ride.

I didn’t hesitate. I dialed the number in the ad and set up a meeting for the following evening.

At dinner that night, I told Abbie I had an appointment with a client the following evening to review their financial plans. It wasn’t unusual—I sometimes did this for older clients with mobility issues.

She didn’t question it. She just asked if I wanted her to keep my supper warm for when I returned.

I met her gaze and replied, “Abbie, I’m a lucky man to have you as my wife. You take such good care of me. I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life. The thought of someone taking you from me ... it would destroy me. Honestly, I don’t think I’d recover.”

Abbie’s eyes welled up instantly, and she quickly retreated into the kitchen. A guilty conscience, I thought—she didn’t want me asking what was wrong. Another piece of the puzzle, another clue confirming my suspicions.

Once I finished my meal, I headed to my home office and buried myself in the plans for my disappearance. Hours passed, and I didn’t leave until it was time for bed. Abbie didn’t come near me once. No check-ins, no questions. The distance was becoming more obvious, more pronounced—especially since the Chicago trip. It was like I had ceased to matter.

With each passing day, it became clearer—our relationship was dying. Abbie had stopped caring, and our emotional connection was withering on the vine.

The next evening, I went to see the bike. It was everything I’d hoped for—and more. The condition was impeccable: clean, well-maintained. The owner was moving out of state and didn’t want to take it with him, so he was selling it.

I knew right away it was the one. Negotiations were quick, and before long, I had the bike for two hundred dollars less than the asking price. He even tossed in a full-face helmet to seal the deal.

The only stipulation was that he’d ride the bike to my storage unit. He didn’t hesitate—probably because I was paying in cash. After handing over the money, he followed me to the unit, and I drove him back home. I left with the bill of sale and a copy of the title.

Saturday, I was set to go to the BMV to transfer the title to the fictitious company that I had set up earlier and ensure I had the proper registration and license tag for the bike.

Saturday morning, I got up early and headed straight to the BMV to take care of the paperwork. It only took fifteen minutes—fill out the forms, pay in cash, and it was done. Simple.

While I was there, I asked about local motorcycle safety classes. The clerk handed me a pamphlet filled with everything I needed to know, along with a phone number to call and schedule a class.

When I got home, I read through it carefully, then placed it in my lockable storage box alongside the other papers and notebooks. Everything had its place. Everything was in order.

On Monday, between appointments, I called to sign up for the riding class the following weekend. It was a two-day event, and if I passed, I’d be eligible to take both the riding and written portions of the test to get my motorcycle endorsement.

I provided my information and paid the fees without hesitation. When the person on the other end asked how much riding experience I had, I simply replied, “None.”

They remarked that it would actually work in my favor—no bad habits to unlearn, they said. In fact, it might even make the whole process easier.

The weekend arrived, and just as I was heading out the door, Abbie asked where I was going and when I’d be back.

I told her I’d signed up for an outdoor survival course offered by the park system. I explained that it seemed like a good idea to learn how to handle myself in the wilderness—especially since we had plans to spend time at a cabin in a state park soon. It would be useful, I said, if at least one of us had that kind of training.

She agreed without hesitation, wished me a good time, and said she had to get ready for a meeting with Reverend Bobby Bill about upcoming church retreat locations. I almost laughed— it was so obvious.

The weekend motorcycle training class was exactly what I needed. Saturday’s classroom session covered the essentials: safe riding habits, traffic laws, and the fundamentals of motorcycle safety. Afterward, we hit the track, where we learned basic motorcycle handling techniques and defensive riding.

It took me a little while to get the hang of shifting gears without stalling the bike, but I figured it out eventually. By Sunday afternoon, I had passed the class with a respectable score. The instructor handed me a certificate to take with me when I was ready to schedule my riding test.

On Wednesday during lunch hour, I went to the testing branch and took the written test. I scored a perfect 100%. That same day, I scheduled my riding test for the weekend, giving me a few days to practice on my motorcycle.

I cleared my schedule for Thursday and Friday. Instead of heading into the office, I drove to the storage unit. There, I changed out of my suit and into my riding clothes. Over the next two days, I rode around the small town, getting comfortable on the bike. It was bigger than the one I’d ridden in the class, but the 650cc was still manageable.

By Friday night, I realized I’d made a serious oversight—I didn’t have motorcycle insurance. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to take the test.

A quick search online and a few clicks later, I found what I needed. I paid for coverage and printed out the certificate proving I was insured through the fictitious company that was set up earlier.

The riding test itself was a mere formality. I passed without a single deduction. I maneuvered the bike around the pylons and demonstrated the necessary skills with ease. The examiner checked off the right boxes and signed the form.

All that was left was to take the form to the licensing branch at the BMV and pay for my motorcycle license to make it official.

The stop at the BMV took longer than the test itself. After filling out the paperwork and paying in cash, I was handed a temporary form to carry with me, proving I was a licensed motorcycle rider. It would serve as my official license until the real one came in the mail—a license that would be sent to my rented mailbox.

All the major parts of my plan were in place. The foundation was set, and now it was just a matter of fine-tuning the details. Every step had been calculated, every decision made. Once everything fell into place, I would disappear.

With my disappearance, they—Abbie, her vile mother, and that adulterous Reverend Bobby Bill—would be left behind to explain my sudden absence.

They wouldn’t know what happened, or where to start. I’d suddenly be gone, and they’d be forced to come up with an explanation for my disappearance.