The blood pulsed in his veins; he could almost hear his carotid artery humming. Reaching this point had taken years of planning—maybe three or four. He had struggled to keep the businesses he'd founded alive. He had borrowed from friends, family, lovers, and even enemies. He had sold cherished possessions, borrowed from one friend to pay another, driven thousands of kilometers trying to sell his ideas and products.
All of it had been in vain.
He was driving to his father's apartment. A father who had abandoned the family when Xavier was just ten, leaving them all behind. Xavier had taken on the role of head of the family. His mother was perhaps mentally unwell. Deeply religious, she had founded a sect—the "Church of Philadelphia." She had even encouraged members to sleep with her 29-year-old daughter in hopes of producing the Messiah. Many left the group then, but his mother still had followers she could manipulate for money.
Arriving at the flat, Xavier began packing up his father's belongings. He even found a broken, rusty old .22 rifle. It reminded him of his failing marriage and his collapsing businesses—battered, barely holding on. He cleared the apartment, packing away a life. Sitting in a corner, he lit a cigarette. His father's absence made him reflect. If I could just disappear, he thought, there would be no debts.
By the time the van was loaded and the apartment cleaned, he had made his decision.
His ideas had been ahead of their time. He realized that now, sitting in his armchair. Before Facebook and LinkedIn, he had tried to launch a platform connecting salespeople with hotels and restaurants, offering members discounts. He'd persuaded establishments and built a network of sales reps. It had been exciting. But the company had failed. Despite thousands of kilometers traveled, countless calls and emails, and excessive spending on meals, hotels, and fuel, the project hadn’t caught on. He had hired six salespeople, but had to let them go before their trial periods ended—a narrow escape from greater legal and financial trouble.
Now, bailiffs were on his back. He was behind on everything—bills, rent, taxes, national insurance, and repayments to family and friends. He had borrowed from friends to pay family, then from a wealthy girlfriend to repay the friends. His debts were mountainous. He had no active projects. Or maybe just one left: the final one.
He contacted his two closest friends. One, who he knew was gay and in love with him, and another, his lifelong companion who had once joined him on an 18-month adventure in America. That friend knew what Xavier planned. He would rendezvous with him in the south of France, after everything had gone down. Involving the other friend was out of the question.
His mother, mad as she was, approved of the plan once he framed it as a "sacrifice." She even agreed to fund him, wherever he might go. One of his businesses had helped expats settle abroad, and he knew how to use untraceable credit cards. That would come in handy, though that company, too, had gone down the drain.
Most people think being on the run is expensive—hideouts, hotels, transportation, all in cash. But Xavier had an idea, sparked by a glimpse of tramps outside a shelter.
No one looks at the homeless. They’re ignored, avoided. Charity workers are their only regular contact. Panhandling requires only patience outside a train station, a square, or a tourist area. No one takes their picture. A homeless man can travel by train, bus, on foot, or by hitchhiking.
Of course, Xavier had practiced. He'd even dragged his son to the shooting range. Both had become crack shots.
He bought materials to dispose of bodies: quick-set concrete, sand, lime, shovels. His friend helped, and they told family they were cleaning up after the dogs. They dug a hole beneath the garden balcony. It was tough, but everything was ready.
A few pills in some drinks. A silencer screwed onto the rifle, which he had repaired. Shutters closed. He called his sister, leaving a calm, pre-recorded message.
He didn’t drug his wife—just waited until she slept. A flash. Then three of their four children. Sacrificed. He called the fourth back from university. Killed the next day. Even the two labradors. He wrapped each body in tarpaulin, placed religious icons, rosaries, and crosses on them, and lowered them into the hole. Quicklime. Then soil. Then concrete.
He slipped up. A dog bowl got trapped in the concrete. He tried to knock it over with his foot. It rattled. No way to retrieve it without ruining the cover. Damn.
He sent letters to the children’s schools and university: the family had moved to America. A resignation letter to his wife’s employer.
Then he deep-cleaned the house. He left car documents on the table—no time to sell them, but he could use one to escape. He removed all family photos, took all IDs, accessed their phones, and kept texting their friends.
They were rotting in the ground.
At 2 a.m., he loaded the car, packed the wiped computers, and dumped them in the bushes in a rough part of town.
Then he began the escape. He left a trail—a red herring. Knowledge of undetectable credit cards allowed him to control the narrative. He made sure to be seen in restaurants and hotels en route. Withdrawing cash at an ATM with a high-res camera sealed the illusion.
He walked away, carrying a large bag—just visible enough to suggest it held the rifle.
He met his friend, who would later deny everything, claiming he had been "working in the zone." Together, they planned the escape. Michael, the American friend, drove him to the airport. The police had not yet found the bodies.
Xavier left on a new passport, with money from his mother and Michael.
On the plane, Xavier smiled.
He could start again.
He could rebuild.
He was Mr. Everyone.