Flash Fiction: The Letter

He had not been expecting a letter. He just moved into his new apartment yesterday and barely unpacked. He left no forwarding address, nor did he tell anyone about his move. And he figured his obituary in the newspaper would dissuade people trying to contact him from looking for him.

"Yes," he thought, "witness protection is certainly one way to restart your life." He thought back to that fateful night. Thanks to bad directions during a clear sky, one wrong turn led him down the wrong freeway in the wrong direction. He saw the parked car on the shoulder and the guy standing on a field beating the other guy to death with a pipe wrench.

He reported the incident and identified the perpetrator to the police, who in turn transferred him to the FBI for the witness protection program. The witness protection program provided him with the new identity, new apartment, new job, and ideally the new life in exchange for killing his old life in a staged burglary attempt. While unable to attend, he heard about his beautiful funeral that his friends and immediate family attended.

Had he known who was beating whom to death, he might have reconsidered witnessing and reporting the incident. But he felt the need to do a good deed for the deceased. He should have remembered that no good deed goes unpunished. Gone was his skyrocketing career in modeling. In exchange for living, he now works in a library in a town where no one reads to maintain a low profile with minimal public exposure.

The letter addressed to his former name and in his hands is proof that all the efforts to hide him were not enough. The last few weeks flash before his eyes as he wonders who leaked his whereabouts. Perhaps it was the officer he reported the incident to. Perhaps it was the FBI agent who arranged the witness protection. Perhaps it was a neighbor from his old apartment. Maybe it was the plastic surgeon. There was even a slight possibility that someone in his new neighborhood recognized him from the obituary.

As he considered more possible suspects who sold him out, paranoia sunk in. He grabbed the untraceable cellphone he received as a parting gift to use in case of emergencies and dialed one of the programmed numbers. Before he could speak to his intended party, the one who sent him the letter was pounding on the door, pipe wrench in hand.