The Wallet
As I turned my pockets inside-out for the umpteenth time, I felt my heart rate increase. My breath quickened, too. I was already late and this was not helping. I’d checked just about every corner of my room, and couldn’t find it. I checked the kitchen, the bathroom, even the laundry – no results. Groaning, I said out loud to myself, “How come this only happens to me now, when I need to leave?”
Throwing cushions off the couch, desperately searching for that tiny piece of leatherwork – so small yet so significant – I imagined the scenario of what would happen if I couldn’t prove my innocence. Jail time would be the lightest punishment, I knew that much.
I had already checked the couch four times. The fifth didn’t prove any more fruitful.
Exasperated, I threw my hands in the air and stomped over to my bedroom to tear off my blazer. I had dressed up to present myself professionally and put my best foot forward. I already had the whole court conspiring against me, I didn’t need them thinking I wasn’t capable of defending myself.
But it didn’t matter anymore. Without my wallet, I’d have no way to show them the photos. No way to defend myself and clear my name. All of them were destroyed by the man in the yellow jumper. I salvaged two of them – one half-burnt – and had kept them in my wallet since June, the date of the wedding. That was the safest place to keep evidence like that.
So I tore off my nicest garb and dropped it all on the floor. I opened my closet and reached for my track pants. “When the police come to arrest me, I want to be warm and comfortable” I thought to myself.
I glanced quickly at the picture of Selene and I before the wedding that was sitting on my bedside. Selene. She never lost anything. If she was still here, she’d be able to get me out of this mess instantly. But of course, if she was still here, none of this would have happened. The man with the yellow jumper would have been caught, tried, convicted and probably disposed of. The good ending would have happened.
An odd piece of clothing in my drawer brought my attention back to the present. It smelled. Like burnt wood and plastic.
I don’t own a yellow jumper.
I picked it up slowly, forgetting about the track pants I was looking for. As I did, a little black piece of leather fell from the unraveling folds.
My wallet.
I picked it up, rejoicing in my luck. Opening the first fold where I kept the pictures, I pulled out a crumpled picture. The second, burnt one was gone.
Turning over the image, my heart leapt into my throat. A message was scribbled on the back.
“Nice try. Strike one. See you at court.”
Leave a Reply