Can You {Do Me a Favor}? Dangers of the Dupe

“Can you do me a favor?”

Martin asked the question with a breezy nonchalance, as if he had commented on the shape of a passing cloud, or what he ate for dinner the night before. It’s a tone that lowered Dean’s guard—or whatever he has of one —and made him agree to hear more.

“What is it?”

“Can you pick up Marlee’s car and drop it off at Ruby Tuesday? She’s out for lunch there and she needs it to go out of town later. I would do it myself, but I called out to a job and my co-worker’s coming to pick me up in a few and said we don’t have time for a stop,” he said. “I know it’s kind out of your way, but I’d pay for the cab to get you back here to pick up your car.”

The request was simple enough, just helping Martin’s fiancé—and Dean’s own friend—out like had done before dozens of times. It would take a few minutes, but it wouldn’t hit his wallet or greatly disturb his schedule.

In exchange for his cab fare and a beer, Dean picked up Marlee’s Toyota hatchback, drove it to the parking lot, tucked the keys inside the wheel well like their typical hand off, fired off a text to Marlee, called a cab, and within a matter of 20 minutes, was back home.

No issues, no fuss. Or at least that’s what he thought.

Three days, five hours of sleep, and four bouts of vomiting later, Dean finds himself waiting in his own car, his foot braced over the gas in case he decides against his plan. In the darkness, he can see the light of the flat screen television through the sheer curtains, make out the silhouette on the couch—a bottle lifted to lips, the moving figures on the screen. On screen is not newscasters—like Dean has been listening to without fail for the past 48 hours, hoping for some update to come through—but football players.

How the hell can he be watching football and having a beer?

How can he not want to do anything but break down into tears?

Dean knows why. Martin’s detachment is one clue of many that has led him here, and the knowledge makes him grip the steering wheel tighter until he feels the metal beneath the surface pressing back against his bones. He has no other options.

Emerging from his car, Dean stalks up to the front door, past the haphazardly constructed signs staked into the ground and printed with Marlee’s picture, her birthday, weight, height, and a number to call with information. Signs that he’s not sure are needed anymore. He watched Martin’s family walk the same path a half hour ago, but instead of walking into the lion’s den, they left it. He wonders if they’ve had the same thoughts.

He knocks, and when no response comes within 30 seconds, he knocks again, this time louder. He channels only a fraction of his rage into his fist, but it shakes the door, the ornate bronzed-knocker Marlee had installed herself last year echoing his beat.

The response comes quickly. Martin opens the door and props his weight on the jamb, adding another layer of wrinkles to his already rumpled maroon t-shirt. “Oh, hey, Dean.”  Martin rakes his hand through his hair, before running his fingers beneath his eyes. He looks haggard. Looks. 

“Why are you here? Coming to check up on me?”

Twenty-four hours ago, the answer would’ve been yes, but as the pieces of this nightmarish puzzle fell into place, any care Dean had disappeared although he has to act like it hasn’t.

Martin waves him inside, and Dean follows. “Yeah, how you doing?”

Martin shrugs as Dean closes the door behind him, keeping his back to it. “What’s there to say? I haven’t heard anything. I’m just waiting for a call.”

I bet you are, Dean thinks. “Me, too.”

Turning into the hall, Martin wipes at his eyes again, but Dean sees no tears.

“You want something to eat? Drink? My neighbors, they’ve brought every casserole I think that’s ever been made.” He chuckles, but Dean sees no humor—not even the dark variety—in people trying to help a situation that’s helpless.

“No, I just want to talk,” Dean tells him, and Martin cocks his head, purses his lips.

“About what?”

“You know.”

Shaking his head, Martin steps over to the wall, his arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t.”

“You do,” Dean says, spitting out the words with so much force, his voice rasps. “If you’re not thinking about it all the time, you’re even worse than I think you are.”

“Worse than you think I am?” Martin says it as a question, but, based on the way his shoulders draw back, and the vein begins to pop in his neck, he doesn’t need the answer. “Can you stop with the damn riddles and just get to whatever the hell you’re trying to say?”

Dean nods, and considers taking a step forward, wanting to invade Martin’s space and make him feel as uncomfortable as possible, but doing so is putting himself at risk. It’s the reason he wants this conversation to take place here in the foyer, rather than in the living room where he knows Martin has a baseball bat from his high school homeroom showcased on a bookshelf.

“I know what you did.”

Martin’s gaze narrows, his mouth setting into a thin line, his nostrils flaring. “Are you serious? You think I did this?”

“Like I just said, I know you did.” Never had the thought crossed Dean’s mind that he’d be here, having this conversation with Martin. His best friend since college. The guy he pictured shooting the shit with as they got married, had kids, aged and continued to yell at the TV whenever the Giants blew their chances on the playoffs again. But Dean did not recognize this person in front of him as his best friend. He was now an enemy. “You’ve been acting weird this whole time.”

Martin muffles a swear word under his breath. “You tell me, Dean, how is someone supposed to act right now?”

“I don’t know, but not like you are. You try to act upset, but you’re not. You’re avoiding people but sneaking away to text someone on your phone. You’re resolved to the worst outcome when everyone else is praying for a miracle.”

Martin doesn’t respect Dean’s rule to not invade space, but marches right into it, his outstretched finger stopping just shy of his chin.

“Fuck you. I want a miracle as much as anyone.”

“For yourself,” Dean says. “I talked to Justin. He said that he never told you that he couldn’t give you a ride to Ruby Tuesday.” Martin’s actions had raised red flags for Dean, but it was his co-worker’s admission that had sent up a massive flare, shedding light on so many signs that Dean couldn’t connect in the shadows. “He said that you would’ve had plenty of time to drop off the car and get to your worksite if you would’ve just asked, but you never even brought it up. Why didn’t you bring it up, Martin?”

While his finger drops and his mouth follows, Martin doesn’t move. “I didn’t think of it. You were the easiest option.”

Also known as the least work for Martin. It fits Martin’s past behavior, but not perfectly, not without forcing. “I don’t believe you.” Dean shoves his hand into his pocket to bring out his phone, and slides through the lock screen. It takes a few tries, the glass shattered in one corner of the screen from when he threw it across his kitchen after truth smacked him hard in the face. “There’s something else.” With the pressure of his finger, a text chain opens, and Dean lifts his phone so Martin can do nothing but look at it.

Martin’s eyes flick up and down the screen, confused. “What? It’s a conversation with Marlee. So?”

“You see where I said I had dropped off the car?”

“Yeah.”

“She texted me thx.”

“So?”

“She never texts me t-h-x. She texts me Thanks exclamation point. But you know who does text me ‘thx’?” Dean watches Martin’s gaze still on the screen, his chest rises and falls with deeper breaths. “You.”

Martin doesn’t flinch, as if he’s built into the laminate floor they’re standing on.

It’s basically an admission, and the revulsion stirs in Dean’s stomach like thick, unchewable taffy. Over Martin’s shoulder, Dean’s eyes fall on a photo of him, Martin, and Marlee at a barbecue the summer before. Memories rise out of the image, ones not of that night, but of a few years earlier, when Martin introduced Marlee as his new girlfriend. She and Dean hit it off quickly, taking shots together, trading stories about life in the business career track, and schooling Martin in cornhole.

At the end of the night, Dean told Martin to hold onto her. He didn’t know if either of them would see the likes of her again. Now, neither of them will.

Dean clenches his fists into the tightest balls he can manage, the pain in his hands keeping him from punching Martin until all he can see and taste is blood.

“You killed her. I don’t know why. I don’t know how, but you did. You murdered her, the best goddamn thing that ever happened to you, and you made me a fucking accomplice.”

Or the fall guy, Dean realizes.

He doesn’t know the story Martin has told police, but it could be one of misdirection, of shifting the blame to the person last seen in her car, who’s prints are now all over it. Dean raises his finger, aiming it square at Martin like his former friend had done to him. “Now you can do me a favor: You can rot in hell and if you don’t make sure of it, I will.”

Martin goes rigid. His shoulders square. His jaw tightens. His stare turns into a bulging glare.

Dean rips open the front door and steps onto the front porch, refusing to witness any more of a reaction that won’t change the truth.

It’s forced upon him anyways, meeting his head with a sickening thwack as he crosses onto the lawn. The last image he sees is that of Marlee’s face, glowing with the reflection of lamppost on the yard sign: MISSING.