Tim Blake was a runner, and a planner. This night he was sitting on a bench, under a tree, across the street from a low-level downtown hotel. He wore black sweatpants, black sneakers, a black hoodie with a tight hood, dark gloves, and a black KN95 mask, maybe fake.

Tim was thirty-nine years old, medium build. He had twin daughters, sixteen, and a son, fifteen. They were all at home this night. He was married to Monica, also thirty-nine. As he sat on the bench, Monica emerged from the hotel’s front door, and turned right toward the parking garage where her Camry was parked while she spent some time inside. It was nine pm. Tim watched her go, and saw her car emerge from the garage. She drove past him.

Two minutes later Donald Crenshaw, III emerged from the hotel. He was forty-nine years old, and he was a big man, well dressed this night. He was a partner in Monica’s law firm. He was also a cheapskate and a snake. His Lexus was not in the lighted parking garage. Instead, Crenshaw had parked it in an alley next to the hotel, by the loading dock, which was unused at night. That way he saved eight dollars. Also, there was no record of his having been near the hotel that night. But it was the eight dollars that mattered to him.

Crenshaw turned left from the hotel entrance, walked half a block and turned into the alley. Tim got off the bench when he saw Crenshaw, and jogged easily across the street, both hands in the pouch of his hoodie. Crenshaw was reaching into the pocket of his overcoat to get his keys when Tim caught up to him. Crenshaw had absolutely no idea that someone else was near him. Tim pulled a .22 revolver out of his hoodie. It was loaded with six rounds. Shorts. It had a homemade sound suppression device mounted on it. Tim put the revolver at the center of the back of Crenshaw’s neck and shot him, severing his spine. Crenshaw dropped to the ground. Crumpled, really. Tim turned him over so they could talk. Crenshaw was alive, and paralyzed. He looked up at Tim.

Tim lifted the KN95 mask, and smiled at Crenshaw. He could see that Crenshaw recognized him. Tim was happy to see the abject fear in the man’s face.

Tim said, “You shouldn’t be fucking someone’s wife. Especially mine. I warned you. Time to pay up.”

Crenshaw gurgled something. Tim shot him in the middle of his forehead. He checked for a pulse, and found none. Then he removed Crenshaw’s wallet, and his car keys. He hefted the body – for it was now just a body – and eased it into a dumpster stationed by the loading dock. There was debris in the dumpster and the body made little noise as it settled into it.

Tim got into Crenshaw’s car. He drove it across town, and parked it at a certain curb. Twenty minutes later a man approached it, took the keys from the front driver’s wheel, and drove away. Three hours later the Lexus was no more. Parts in a big warehouse.

Tim ran from the Lexus to his house, miles away. About halfway there, he stopped, took the money from the wallet and shoved the wallet into a storm drain. Another four blocks on, he did the same with the .22. It was an untraceable gun, that he had since he was a teenager. He had grown up in a rough neighborhood. He hid the gun all that time, knowing that someday he might need it – again.

Monica was home when he arrived from his regular Wednesday evening run. He was about ten minutes later than usual.

The teens were all upstairs in their rooms. Monica was in the kitchen. She had shed her work clothes, and wore a shift, slippers. She looked the same as usual – very good.

She said, “How was your run?”

“Very satisfying.” Tim smiled at her. He noted that she had showered since she had been home. A normal Wednesday. He did the same, and they went to bed. She initiated sex. Tim pulled her to himself and fucked her hard, until they both came.

Monica arrived home from work the next day, shocked.

“Tim, Don has been killed. He’s dead.” She was sobbing.

“He was a jerk. Why cry?” He stared at her, hard. She paled, screamed and fell to the floor.