The phone rang again.
“Hey, is this Eric Flores of 2009?”
“Todd? Is that you again? Are you really in 2014?”
“Never mind that. Are you Eric Flores in Seneca Valley, California?”
“Yeees. What’s this about? This isn’t Todd, is it?”
“No, not Todd. It’s me… I mean you… Us. I only get this one phone call, but I figure that I can put it to good use.”
“I’m not following you,” I said, with the pit in my stomach growing.
“We’re… I’m under arrest for killing my wife, Monica.”
“Good God… did you… did I?”
“She was cheating on me, I had to kill her. You’ll understand, trust me.”
“I-I-I don’t know…”
“Anyway, they arrested me because they found the gun in the garage and matched the bullet from her skull to my pistol, the 9 mil. You gotta destroy the gun after you kill her.”
“It’s registered, they’ll know I have it!”
“Right, I know, buy a new barrel for it now. No one will suspect that you premeditated Monica’s murder before you even met her. Good luck.”
I stared at the phone for a while.