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By Root 309 0

his way through traffic, Martin began rehearsing his lines, looking for a way to convey the necessary message in a realistic and natural way. He would have only one chance to nail this performance, and rarely had he found himself forced to perform under such pressure. Developing a mental script had always been easy for Martin. Words had always flowed naturally from his mind, and he was the master of internal dialogue. It was rare when he didn’t have a conversation of some sort running through his head. He was also quite adept at anticipating the responses of others and therefore often had rebuttals, retorts, and counterpoints at the ready. Though his contact with other people was somewhat limited beyond his exceptionally small circle of friends, he was quite the wordsmith.

Where Martin required more preparation was in his actual performances. He was by no means a natural actor, and so his prepared speeches often came across as unnatural and insincere. With a great deal of rehearsal, he had found he could sound believable, but in this case the only rehearsal he would have would take place while behind the wheel of his Subaru, darting between traffic. He found himself almost hoping that he wouldn’t make it to West Hartford on time, so that he wouldn’t be forced into an unprepared performance.

This ended up not being the case. At 4:42 Martin pulled into the parking lot at 50 South Main Street in West Hartford, the location of West Hartford’s town hall (as Martin had suspected). With time to spare before the 5:00 closing, Martin rehearsed his lines a few more times, trying to find the right combination of words and inflection. Still feeling unprepared but with no more time to spare, Martin climbed out of his car at 4:50 and headed for the front doors to the large brick building.

Martin had been inside this building before, for a variety of business including the payment of excise tax and the filing of his mother’s death certificate, but he wasn’t sure in which office Laura Green might be working. Stopping for a moment beside the directory, he quickly thought better and went over to the information desk, where he was informed by a blue-haired lady that he was looking for room 207 on the second floor. With no time to waste, Martin bypassed the elevators and took the stairs, two at a time.

West Hartford’s town hall had originally been constructed as a high school, and though decades had passed since the last student had roamed its halls, the building had nonetheless retained its institutional feel. Following signs, Martin was soon standing outside the door to room 207, marked with a sign stating TOWN CLERK.

His heart began to beat faster with the knowledge that Laura Green was likely behind this door.

Thankfully the hallway outside the town clerk’s office was empty, so Martin took a full minute to compose himself. He wasn’t sure what to expect once he entered the office, but he tried to steady his breathing and focus on the task at hand. One chance, he reminded himself. I’ve got just one chance to get this right.

At 4:54, Martin opened the door and entered the office of the town clerk. The room was larger than he had expected but customarily stale. To his immediate right, a high counter separated the public side of the office from the employees’ side, where three large desks were evenly spaced along the far wall. A woman was sitting behind each desk, head down, busy at work. Martin approached the counter, removed his wallet from his back pocket, and waited patiently to be acknowledged. A moment later a middle-aged woman looked up, smiled, and made her way over to Martin at the reception desk.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a pleasant and friendly tone.

Martin immediately wished that he had paid better attention to Laura Green’s voice as she had spoken on the Ashleys’ answering machine. He hadn’t expected there to be three women from which to choose, and he had no way of knowing if this was Laura Green. Had Cujo not attacked, he would have taken the time to locate a photograph of the woman somewhere in her home, but being