“James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday,” the reporter on the TV said as James poured himself a coffee, smirking, “the incident occurred on the 22nd Block of Peach and Jasmine—emergency personel arrived on scene where the man, 32, was pronounced dead.”

James relaxed in his chair, nodding to himself, smiling. He had done it, after all these years, he had finally found a way to escape his debtors. That heavy burden that had followed him most of his life—a product of his own poor decisions, perhaps, but James did not see it that way. He was a victim to an unfair system that was made to keep him and him alone down. His gambling debts, credit card debts, countless fines in his name—they were not his doing, just an unfair misfortune that the world had placed on him for being born poor. He sipped from his coffee as the newscast continued onto the weather, moving quickly and unceremoniously past the mystery of his death.

He would have the money wired to him, soon, he thought to himself. Soon enough the insurance company would pay out to his wife who would in turn wire it to him through an off shore bank account—untraceable, he had assured her. And she would pocket a pretty penny too and then the both of them would be able to move past their miserable lives and their miserable marriage. He had often dreamt about where he might go when its all over. Bali? Maybe the Virgin Islands? Somewhere warm, he had no doubt. He supposed he would have all the time in the world now to think it through and choose somewhere nice to hide out the rest of his days.

He pulled it off flawlessly. Made it look like perhaps it was murder for hire, that he had not only been shot, but his body had been stolen away. That it would be framed as his debtors coming to collect in the most gruesome way possible. The newscast did not confirm that this was the suspicion of the officers—nor did they show the bloody scene of the crime, but James knew, in time, things would unfold as planned.

James took another sip of his coffee and flipped to the next channel on the TV. Another newscast. Wait, no, the same one. James sat up a bit, leaning toward the TV slightly. “James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday,” the reporter said, as before, “the incident occurred on the 22nd Block of Peach and Jasmine, discovered by a passerby who had heard a gunshot in the area.”

The scene turned to a lady being interviewed, in the background, James could see the flashing lights of patrol cars and the yellow “KEEP OUT” tape that quartered off the crime scene. “I—I heard gun shots and I waited a little bit—god I was so afraid, I wasn’t sure what was happening, but when I got here, the man, he was dead. His body…I’ll never get it out of my head—the body.”

James swallowed. Body? There wasn’t supposed to be a—

He took another sip of his drink and his face twisted in disgust at the taste. He threw his cup down on the table in front of him. It didn’t taste like coffee—no, it tasted of mildew with some trace of something earthy. He stood from his recliner and picked up the cup, studying it, then turned back tot he TV, the program moved once more to the weather, unceremoniously, as if the macabre topic covered was nothing but commonplace. James set his mug back down on the table and ran his fingers through his black hair, steadying his breath.

“Get ahold of yourself.” He said to himself. “There was no body—is no body at the crime scene. I’m here, after all.”

He chuckled and sat back down and flipped the channel on the TV.

He leaned forward with a start. It was the same program. The same lady. “James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday,” she said, just as she had before, “the incident occurred on the 22nd Block of Peach and Jasmine where the body of the 32 year old was found with three gunshot wounds—one in the head, one in the stomach, and another in the leg. The male was pronounced dead at the scene. Authorities are investigating…”

The TV droned on. James was on his feet. He could feel his heart racing. Did they get the wrong guy? No—everything had gone off without a hitch, exactly as planned. It had happened on the 22nd Block at the intersection of Peach and Jasmine streets. But why—why was the news…why were they reporting they found his body. That the positively identified him. James took up his mug once more and took a sip, desperate to calm his fraying nerves.

He began choking. He felt himself heaving, his lungs burning. Tears burned at his eyes as he coughed and coughed. He scratched as his throat, and, panicked, began to try to give himself the hiemlich. At last, he felt himself heave. He bent over and watched with wide eyes as dirt and mud left his mouth and splattered onto the carpet at his feet. When the contents of his stomach were emptied onto the floor, he fell back onto his recliner taking deep, labored breaths. His eyes raced, red and swollen. He reached for his mug and found it empty—nothing remaining in the cup.

He tried to get ahold of his breaths, looking back up at the TV which didn’t yet move on to the weather like before. No, on the TV was just the photo of the victim. His photo. The lady on the program repeating “Three gunshot wounds—one in the head, the stomach, and in the back of the leg. The male was pronounced dead at the scene…”

James shook his head. “No, no. I’m not—I’m…” James bolted to his feet. “I need…I just need to clear my head.”

James stepped gingerly over the pile of dirt between the chair and the table and left his living room going left through a small hallway and into the bathroom. He flicked the light on and took to the sink to wash his face, breathing deeply, trying to soothe himself. He was alive. He was here, after all, and soon, he would put all of this behind him. It must have been his nerves, maybe some small part of him felt guilty for committing insurance fraud like this, by hiring someone to help him fake his death. Yes, that must have been it.

But when he looked up, finishing washing his face, his heart dropped. His face went flush—white as a ghost. When he beheld his reflection, he saw his skin was pale and waxy. And his forehead sat a red and swollen hole where something had burrowed itself deep. Dried blood covered his head, running down the side of his face. He looked down at his stomach and saw his shirt had a hole in it and the blue fabric was dyed red. He lifted his shirt to see another hole. Bullet holes.

James limped over to the living room again, his body suddenly recalling the bullet lodged in the back of his left leg. He stumbled to the TV where the lady said once more, “James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday on the 22nd Block of Peach and Jasmine.”