Bastard (A Novel)

"Fuck!" Frank Miller muttered.

He rummaged through his things in the hotel room in Boulder.

"It's not anywhere. I can't find it!"

He groaned, his hands over his head.

"I'll have to go back to London. There's no way I can stay here, or there. FUCK."

He quickly got into his rented car and drove to the airport in the city.

There was a long line, making him tap his foot as aggressively as he clenched his jaw in frustration and examined the many items each stranger carried with them.

Finally, his turn arrived.

He showed his passport, stuffing his nerves down, and managed to board the plane without issue.

He paid with cash to avoid leaving any sort of trail behind him.

I have to get that key. I have to see Sarah again. She hates me. I know she does. Honestly, I don't even blame her. Poor thing. I ruined everything. I know I did. I'll just make sure she has enough cash when I go into the place to get that key.

Frank Miller, haphazardly leaving after, allegedly, killing his wife had forgotten the key to his penthouse in New York City.

After a few stops here and there and a sandwich filled with salami entering Frank's mouth and exiting his stomach while he was aboard, the plane landed.

They had finally arrived in London.

Frank discreetly rented a vehicle and drove to his home.

For once in her life, Sarah was out: she had decided to visit the library that day.

Thanking his lucky stars for that, he checked the pile of cash and added $1,000 to it.

He scurried up to his bedroom and retrieved the key to his apartment. He then quickly drove back and paid for a flight to New York City, in cash.

That evening, Frank arrived in New York City, rented a car, and drove to his penthouse.

He was on the fifth floor, providing him with an excellent view of the city.

He sat down at his desk.

He searched "homicide" on Google to familiarize himself further with the law.

He already knew quite a bit about it, due to his longstanding profession as a lawyer: Even though he had recently resigned due to the circumstances, he had so much money that it didn't matter.

If they frame me for homicide, I can say it was in self-defense. That bitch was yelling at me after all. She threw a pot at my head, and it hit me, but no one seems to care about that. Apparently, in some circumstances, I can get away with homicide if it was in self-defense. I can use that if it gets to that.

Frank Miller had only ever lost one case. He had won every other.

The lost case was one of homicide, the husband had killed his wife, and he'd known it.

He hadn't been able to triumph due to this knowledge, understanding deep in his soul that he was defending a murderer. A murderer who could be out on the street killing others if he had lost, so he'd decided to lose intentionally.

He was so good that this had worked.

Now, Frank Miller recollected the case in fear: It resembled his current situation far too closely.

He now knew that no one planned to be a killer. No one set out to do it, unless they received pleasure from the experience. No. 90% of people, as far as he was concerned, were pushed.

Pushed to kill their significant others. Pushed over the brink of self-control, as the officials presumed he had been.