Free Reality Check (2010) by Peter Abrahams

hadn't been found, then what the hell was Mr. Weston doing back in Little Bend?
    Pink patches rose to the surface of Mr. Weston's face. "How dare you--" At that moment, Fran came up behind him, a very good-looking woman who'd once been a model, but now for the first time Cody saw how old she really was.
"Win?" she said. "What's going on?" She became aware of
    Cody and frowned.
"Mrs. Weston?" said Cody, taking the letter from his
pocket, "I got this letter from Clea. It just came but must have
been written the same day she--"
Mr. Weston snatched the letter, started reading, his eyes
desperate, those pink patches spreading on his face. "Skip the first bit," Cody said. He stepped around, pointed
at the middle section of the letter. "There's this part I don't--" Mr. Weston backed away, out of Cody's reach. "'Thinking about you a lot'--goddamn it," he said. He glared at Cody.
"None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for you." "You're blaming me?" Cody said.
"Now, Win," said Fran, touching his shoulder. At that
moment a limo rolled into the driveway. "Come," Fran said.
"We've got to catch the flight back."
Mr. Weston didn't notice the limo, seemed to be aware of
nothing but Cody. He shook off Fran's hand. "Yes, you sneaky
bastard," he said, his voice rising and rising. "I do blame you. If
you hadn't come barging into her life, derailing everything I've
worked so--" All at once, although Mr. Weston's mouth was
still moving, no sounds were coming out, no sounds except for
little gasps. Mr. Weston's hand went to his throat--the letter
floating from his grasp--and he started pushing at his windpipe as though something had slipped out of alignment. "Win?"
And then Mr. Weston spun around in a kind of limp sinking
pirouette and fell on the marble floor of Cottonwood's entrance
hall.
    The limo driver knew CPR. Maybe because of him, Mr. Weston was still breathing and his heart was still beating when the ambulance came a few minutes later. A few minutes after that, Cody was standing all by himself in front of Cottonwood. He picked up the letter, pulled the door closed, checking carefully to make sure it was locked before he drove away, like that would make all the difference.
CHANCES OF SURVIVAL IN THE NIGHT WOODS: Cody couldn't get that
    phrase out of his mind. Back at the apartment, he looked without success for news of Clea and then checked the weather in North Dover, Vermont. Rainy and windy, high 45, low 33. Thirty-three was cold, could easily turn that rain to snow. Cody was already pretty sure about his plans, but the weather report moved him closer to certainty. He took out his cell phone and tried her number again.
    "Hi, this is Clea. I'm not here right now, but please leave a message and I'll get back to you."
That was it, end of story. "Clea," he said. "I'm on my way." Cody was aware how stupid that might have sounded, say to some all-knowing observer, but he didn't feel stupid, not the least bit. He went to MapQuest, entered Little Bend in one box and North Dover, Vermont, in the other, and printed the results.
Cody didn't have any real luggage, just a big duffel he used for sports equipment. He started packing: jeans, extra sneakers, a few T-shirts, sweats, underwear, socks. What else? He couldn't think of anything. With what he was already wearing--his other pair of jeans, flannel shirt, fleece--he had all he needed.
He thought of calling his father but couldn't imagine a way for the conversation to go right. Instead he wrote a note and stuck it on the fridge.
    Dad,
I'll be gone for a few days. Looking into this
job out of town. I'll call.
Cody
    Looking into this job out of town: vague enough to be almost true. Cody had reached the point of knowing that lying was a necessary life skill, and even that some of those who went furthest in life lied the best, but he hadn't reached the point of getting comfortable with it.
    Duffel in one hand, car keys in the other, he glanced around the apartment, suddenly saw it for the