Three Simple Tasks

I force myself to repeat the list in my head. All I have to do is three simple tasks: One, attend the memorial service. Two, expose the murderer. Three, claim the reward. One, two, three. One, two three.

Yeah, simple my ass.

           The repetition—however blindly naïve—helps keep my brain preoccupied, keeps me from spirally any more than I already am. My obsessive personality is a lot harder to manage when I’m not high, and making lists keeps the anxiety at a steady simmer instead of boiling over the top.

           My go-to tic is usually picking at my cuticles until they bleed, but my favorite fingers (middle left and right index, if you’re curious) are currently covered in bandages—my feeble attempt to stop myself from absentmindedly picking them to oblivion. I’m undoubtedly going to ruin this family function, so I figured it would be best to avoid showing up with blood dripping down my fingers.

           As the car bumps along the old, rural road, I find myself wondering, once again, if this is all an elaborate attempt to trick me into showing up for an intervention. My family has done crazier things than fake a murder to try and deal with my “problem.”

But I doubt it’s another intervention. Not after how the last one ended—they say families can get through anything, but that apparently doesn’t include the destruction of a $500,000 fish tank. My parents were so pissed you would’ve thought I’d personally strangled the life out of every last one of their prized marine animals.

           My fingers dance over the bandages and my mind screams at me to rip them off. My mouth twitches with the phantom motion of tearing the hangnails out with my teeth. But I resist the urge—something my parents think me incapable of doing. See, I do have some fucking self-control.

I repeat the list to myself again and chew on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Not a great solution, but hey, blood in my mouth is better than blood on my hands. I just need to make sure I don’t stain my teeth.

I stare out the window at the bleak landscape spreading before me. Fucking rural New York. Who even likes rural New York? And in the winter? My own personal hell. My body aches for the noise and sounds of the city, the endless distractions that keep my thoughts at bay. And the coke. Oh God, how I miss the coke.

But I remind myself why I’m doing this, why I’m leaving the comfort of the city to venture out into the middle of nowhere. I only need to spend a few hours away from the city and, if everything goes well, I’ll have enough money to buy as much coke as I need. All I have to do is confront a murderer. And see my family. Honestly, I don’t know which is more stressful.

Despite what my family says, I’m not an addict. Addicts can’t control themselves. Addicts can’t keep their lives together. But I can. Yeah, I may currently be between jobs. And yeah, my mom may be letting me stay rent-free at our family’s penthouse in the Upper East Side. But my life is still fine. I don’t have a problem. I’m a hard-working, self-made man that uses the occasional sprinkle of cocaine to keep things under control. Who cares? I’m not an addict. I just know what my body needs, and it turns out that it’s “illegal,” or whatever. I’ve found that, when you’re rich enough, the line between “illegal” and “legal if you can pay for it” is pretty thin. Transparent, even. But it doesn’t matter. Because I’m not an addict.

Dorene would understand. Or, at least, I assume she would. I never actually met the woman, but the letter she sent me made it sound like she’d understand.

I finger the creamy envelope in my coat pocket and eventually fish it out. I’ve already read it dozens of times, but I’m sick of looking at this godforsaken countryside. I need a distraction.

I pull the paper out of the envelope and unfold it gently. It’s a single page of thick, soft stationary—the kind that only rich people use. God, I bet you could buy so much coke with the money rich pricks spend on stationary.

The letter is written in a dark, thick ink, and the words are pressed deeply into the paper, as if Dorene were pissed she’d had to write a letter. She probably had servants for that kind of menial task.

The handwriting is fat and messy, like how I imagine a trained monkey would write. Or a chronically drunk, angry old woman. Although I’ve practically memorized the letter, I read the words again.

Nelson,

I swear to God, this motherfucking letter better reach you. I’ve already spent too much goddamn money tracking you down, so you better not disappoint me like the rest of this god-awful family.

I know you don’t know me, so I’ll get straight to the point: I’m your great aunt, and someone in our family is trying to kill me. The fucking nerve.

To be honest, I’m surprised they haven’t tried sooner—I’m the only thing standing in the way of half a dozen people getting their filthy little hands on quite a fortune. But I guess that’s what you get for raising a bunch of pussies. I swear, this whole bloodline has gone to shit. My grandparents used to kill chickens with their bare hands. Now, your cousin Buford can barely get through a meal without whimpering about how sad it is that a cow had to die to make the meal. For God’s sake, just shut up and enjoy the veal.

I have half a mind to donate all my money to some cult out in the Midwest. God knows those inbreds love a good cult. But who wants to finance that? If I wanted my money to pay for sex and cover up crimes, I’d just give it to the goddamn NYPD. It sure would be fucking fantastic to give all my money away and see how the family reacted, though. Especially your uncle Roger. God, that guy sucks.

But this is where you come in, Nelson. (What kind of dumb-fuck name is Nelson, by the way? Your parents couldn’t think of a less shitty name? My God.) I want you to solve my murder. If you’re getting this letter, it means someone in the family finally grew the balls to kill me, and I’ll be damned if they get away with it.

Believe it or not, I’ve been following you for quite some time, now. You and I are cut from the same cloth, I think: shitty parents, a lust for life, a penchant for self-medicating. If I’m right about you, I know you’ll want to help me.

Oh, and I know you’re broke as shit.

That nose candy you’re so fond of doesn’t come cheap, and I can’t imagine your parents cutting you off from the family coffers after your last failed intervention has made it any easier to, shall we say, ease your pains. (By the way, your mother won’t shut her goddamn mouth about the fish you killed. Jesus, get another hobby, Agatha. This family is insufferable.)

So, here’s the deal: solve my murder, and you can have my fortune. All $400 million. You just need to attend my memorial service, expose the murderer, and claim the reward. Three simple tasks. That’s it.

Don’t fuck it up,

Dorene

I tuck the letter back into my coat pocket as the driver pulls off the gravel road and turns up a private driveway. A large hill looms before me, its face covered with trees stripped bare for winter. The road snakes up the side of the hill, where a sprawling mansion sits at the peak.

Why have I never been here before? And why have I never heard of Dorene? From the tone of her letter, I imagine she wasn’t the easiest woman to live with. But still, with a place like this, I’d be willing to put up with anyone’s bullshit. I blink rapidly and twitch my nose as I think about how much money $400 million really is.

The driver winds his way to the front of the home, which seems to stretch endlessly into the sky. I count no less than forty windows, and that’s only on one side. I begin to salivate just from imagining what life will be like if I’m able to pull this off.

The car shifts into park, and I stare at the thick, dark doors just outside the window. Behind those doors, my family is waiting. I don’t know who all will be there, but I know it’ll be a nightmare. My mother with her patronizing condescension. Cousin Buford with his fake British accent that he says is part of his “method acting” for some shitty Shakespeare troupe he’s in. Uncle Roger and his godawful facial hair that makes him look like an obese version of Colonel Sanders. God, Uncle Roger sucks. My whole family sucks.

But $400 million is a lot of money. And it’s money I’m determined to get.

I open the car door and step out into the bitter winter air. I walk up to the mansion and, with a twist of the doorknob and a strong push, walk into the house.

Time to catch a motherfucking killer.