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Welcome to the third chapter of Sunday Shorts, your weekly dose of fictional short stories written by yours truly. If you missed the others, you can read the archives here. This week’s story comes from a Reddit prompt: A story where the first and last lines are the same but have very different meanings.
Just a quick note: Today’s story includes some adult language that might not be suitable for all readers.
When I said I would do anything for my wife, I meant it. But I never meant for this.
As I stared at her lying in our bedroom, I couldn’t help but feel an immense hatred for my father-in-law. This was his fault, you know. The smug bastard. On her thirty-fifth birthday, my wife—his only daughter—was due to collect five million dollars from his estate. But two months before, he called with an ultimatum: collect her money and leave me, or stay with me and forfeit the money forever.
I have to give her credit, she didn’t hesitate to tell him to fuck off and to keep his money. I’ve always loved that confidence about her. But her father, Charles—of course his fucking name is Charles—has always been a shadowy figure hovering over her life. She told me on our first date how he tries to control and manipulate her to make the decisions that he wants. He pleaded with her to follow in his footsteps and go to law school, join his firm, and eventually rise to partner. But she never had an interest in law. Instead, she became a first-grade teacher who loved kids.
As fate would have it, that’s how we met. I was dropping my nephew off at school one morning after my sister called in a frenzy that she was late for a meeting, and could I please just this once drop him off. Yeah, sure, fine, Sis. Turns out, it was the best decision I ever made. I was in the drop-off line; Lori was escorting the class into the building. She had long wavy brown hair, with toned tan legs, and she laughed all the way inside with her students. Talk about hot for teacher.
Charles has never approved of me. In his eyes, if his daughter wasn’t gonna be a lawyer then the least she could do was marry one. He was constantly trying to undercut our relationship by getting her to date some up-and-coming hotshot at the firm named Brad or Bruce or who-the-fuck cares.
While Lori never showed any signs she was upset about her father’s ultimatum, I knew deep down she had to be. I mean it was five million dollars for chrissakes. So I decided I’d force Charles to give us the money—without him ever having a clue.
My plan was simple. One night when Lori was home alone, I’d have her kidnapped. Not for real, of course. Well, for real, but, y’know, not for real for real. I’m not an asshole. I know a guy, name is Rob, done a couple of stints in prison for selling drugs. Occasionally he sells me weed. Anyway, one night I’m at his place and we’re smoking and I’m venting about all this bullshit Charles is putting us through. He tells me for a thirty percent cut of the money, he’ll “break” in through an unlocked back door, kidnap Lori, and take her to his grandma’s farm thirty minutes away. She’ll be safe in a guesthouse for a couple of days, he tells me, while he works Charles to hand over a five-million-dollar ransom for his daughter. Once the money is secured, he’ll let Lori go unharmed, and we’ll get our money. Easy as pie, he told me, easy as piiiiiiiiiiiiie.
Maybe I should have told Lori about our plan. But she never would have accepted. Lori always told me that we didn’t need the money. Michael, she would say as she put her soft hands on my cheeks and stared at me with her beautiful blue eyes, we’ll do just fine on our own.
But of course we needed the money. Who doesn’t need five fucking million dollars? We could pay off her school loans, buy new cars, get out of the city, buy a house—a nice and proper house with lots of land—wherever we wanted. That was our plan anyway, but not our right-now plan; Lori called it our ten-year plan. Why couldn’t she see that five million dollars would get us there so much faster?
Rob and I spent the next few weeks leading up to Lori’s birthday smoking and working out the finer details to ensure an orderly and safe kidnapping. I told him she couldn’t get hurt, not even a scratch. And once she was at the guesthouse, she had to have full access to all the food and drinks she needed, especially her favorite wine, considering she’d likely be stressed and all. Rob agreed, though he said he’d have to secure the doors and windows, and make sure there weren’t any weapons lying around. Fair enough.
We agreed that on the night before her birthday, April 25, I would say I was working late. I’d leave a key to the back door so he could sneak in. He’d find Lori drinking a glass of wine and watching TV around eight, just as the sun went to sleep. He would leave a note saying, “If you ever want to see your wife again, call…” and then a number to a burner phone. I’d return home an hour or so later, panic, call her dad, whose can-do, take-charge attitude would handle the rest. I’d play the distressed husband as the events unfolded—of course worrying about my wife, but knowing she was okay—and planning our future with three and a half million dollars. I thought of all the places we’d go, the sights we’d see, where we’d eventually settle down.
It’s funny how plans don’t always play out quite as you expect.
I stood at the foot of our bed staring down at Lori’s lifeless body, her blood soaking our white comforter and hardwood floors. Rob lay dead next to her, a bullet hole pierced between his two open eyes that stared at the ceiling fan. He had a gun in his hand. Motherfucker. We said no weapons. Then again, I guess I’d forgotten to tell him we bought a gun months back after a rash of break-ins plagued the neighborhood. Lori must have gotten away and run to the bedroom to grab it. I couldn’t believe our plan had gone so tragically wrong. Not only was my wife dead, but now we’d never see the five million.
I stepped over Rob’s body and walked into the dark kitchen to call 9-1-1. I took a moment to gather myself before dialing. What the hell do you say to the cops when your wife and drug dealer are dead in your bedroom? I deleted all the calls and texts between me and Rob just in case. As I was about to call, I noticed an envelope on the counter with Charles’s handwriting. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and pulled out a note that read:
“To my loving daughter,
We may not have always seen eye to eye, but as your father I want you to know that all I want is for you to be happy. And if Michael makes you happy, then so be it. I’ll learn to accept him. Please, give me some time.
In the meantime, I hope this will help you build the life you have always desired. You deserve it.
Your loving father.”
Tucked in the note was a check for five million dollars. I couldn’t believe it. The smug bastard caved and gave it to her anyway! I looked back at my phone, 9-1-1 still on the dial pad. I couldn’t call now. As soon as Charles learned that Lori was dead, he’d cancel the check immediately. But if they just spoke today, that gave me a three- or four-day window to get out of town with a wealth of money that would forever change my life.
I could escape to Barbados, bask in the white sandy beaches and crystal clear water—hell, maybe buy an island and never be heard from again. Of course, all of this would be better with Lori by my side. I can’t help but feel that I let her down.
When I said I would do anything for my wife, I meant it. But I never meant for this.
About This Story
I came across this prompt on Reddit’s r/writingprompts, an amazing community with thousands of story ideas to spark your creative interest. The prompt immediately caught my attention: A story where the first and last lines are the same but have very different meanings. I wish I could say what sparked the idea to write about a husband planning a kidnapping of his wife, but I can’t say for certain; all I know is my fingers started typing and this is what I wrote.
Re-reading this story, it strikes me that Michael never truly loved his wife at all; he was always driven by the money, which he believed would bring him the happiness he’d always longed for. His greed ended up costing him everything.
Credits this week: Ransom was written and edited by me, Matt Keyser. The podcast was also read, edited, and produced by me; music and sounds courtesy of freesound.org.
Be sure to follow Sunday Shorts on Instagram for behind-the-scenes looks at how Sunday Shorts is made and previews to upcoming stories.
Must Reads
The Minor Regional Novelist: This 2016 profile gives us a glimpse into the life and career of the late, great Larry McMurtry, a novelist and screenwriter whose works included Lonseome Dove, Terms of Endearment, and The Last Picture Show. The New York Times described him as a writer who “demythologized the American West with his unromantic depictions of life on the 19th-century frontier and in contemporary small-town Texas.” McMurtry was 84.
Will Americans Actually Comply With a Long-Term Lockdown?: This story, originally written when Covid-19 lockdowns began in March 2020, asks if Americans would follow social distancing guidelines to help curb the spread of the novel coronavirus. It’s wild reading this story now that the virus has become so politicized, states are reopening at a time when scientists are asking to hold off awhile longer, and more than half-a-million Americans have died.
Curtis Flowers, man freed after wrongful imprisonment, marries in Mississippi: Curtis Flowers, a Mississippi man recently exonerated after six murder trials and more than 20 years on death row, recently married his long-time girlfriend. Flowers’ case was highlighted in great detail in season two of American Public Media’s In The Dark podcast, which largely helped secure Flowers’ freedom. It’s an extraordinary feat of investigative journalism and a must-listen if you haven’t already.
ICYMI
An excerpt from last week’s Sunday Short:
[The present] was lighter than Ruth expected. As she hurried to open it, trying not to appear too excited, her mind raced: was it keys to a new car, plane tickets to a faraway land? Grandma had always told her it would take her places.
Read Grandma Dorothy’s Ruby Slippers.
Thank you for reading this chapter of Sunday Shorts. I’ll catch y’all next week with a new short story.
Cheers!
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