For Kyle and his dozen guests, it was the sort of party that they could only get away with in the restaurant’s private room. The wine flowed freely and stories were shared that, thankfully, would be long forgotten by morning. Although he generally enjoyed savoring a bottle from his private cellar, Kyle felt that his birthday was the perfect excuse to show his closest friends his less inhibited side.

“The first of us to hit forty!” Roland exclaimed. “How does it feel, old man?”

Kyle took a big sip of his Cabernet Franc and patted his short black hair. “Not so bad when I see you turning gray early,” he teased. Both men laughed and clinked glasses.

Maren walked over, a torn purple streamer wrapped around her shoulders and under her wavy red hair. She put both arms around Kyle’s neck and smiled with watery eyes. “I hardly ever see you without a freshly pressed suit. This is a good look for you.”

Kyle smiled and smoothed out his jade-green polo shirt. “Thanks, but I can’t go this casual all the time. Most people are investing their money with the suit, not the person.”

Maren ran her hand down Kyle’s right arm. “Oh, I think everyone sees that you know what you’re doing. I mean, I’ve seen all sides of you—well, almost all—and still trust you with my investments.” She paused. “But keeping the suits couldn’t hurt. I must say they make you look pretty hot, too.” She put her hand to her mouth and gave a small gasp, pretending to be surprised by her boldness.

Needing a second to gather his wits before replying, Kyle called for another bottle of wine. By the time he had poured a glass, Maren had joined two of the other women, although she kept glancing over at Kyle, clearly able to read his thoughts. The two had always been flirtatious, and this was just the type of night that could push the relationship over the edge.

But it was not meant to be. Fifteen minutes later, Maren tapped Kyle’s shoulder. “Hey, I was hoping to get back over to you, but I just got a call from my mom. Her burglar alarm is acting up, and I need to take a taxi over to help her. This has been fun, though. I was thinking… I’ve only got four years until my forties. Maybe we could meet up for lunch this week? You could give me a sneak preview of what to expect.”

Although the party lost much of its life with Maren gone, Kyle and his friends kept going until midnight. The restaurant staff apologetically let them know that they were closing, but a substantial tip bought them another half hour.

By that point, Kyle could barely read his phone screen as he fumbled through a ridesharing app. Ten minutes later, his head was spinning as he cruised home in the back seat of a Lexus IS.

“This is a pretty fancy car to drive people around in,” Kyle commented. “How do you afford it with a job like this?”

The driver looked back at Kyle in the rear-view mirror. Apparently deciding that Kyle was too drunk to remember the conversation, he said, “Only rich people can afford the premium rate for this car, and they tend to be very generous with the tips. Just a handful of rides a week covers the payments.”

Kyle nodded approvingly. “Hey, you sound like a man who’s smart with his money. You should give me a call, and we can talk about your investments.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

The man turned to take the card, and THUD! A dark figure crashed against the hood of the car. The driver slammed on the brakes, and both men rushed out to investigate. A young man, looking to be in his early twenties, lay on the road in front of the car. From the position of his body, Kyle immediately grasped the seriousness of the situation. Scared into a feeling of sobriety, he placed his face above the man’s mouth and placed his fingers on the side of the neck. No signs of life.

He turned to the driver. “You killed him! What am I supposed to do now?”

“You’re supposed to keep your hands off the driver. If you hadn’t been distracting me, this wouldn’t have happened.” He pulled out his phone.

“Hey! What are you doing? I can’t be found like this. I have a reputation around town. I could lose everything.”

The driver met his eyes. “I’m calling 911. We just killed a man.”

“Call them if you need to, but don’t get me involved.”

“You’re not just a witness. You’re part of the reason he’s dead.” The driver looked at Kyle uncomprehendingly. “You’re seriously worried about yourself? I just wrecked my car, and I’m definitely going to lose my job over this, if not go to prison. And, in case you haven’t noticed,” he pointed at the man on the road, “this guy is dead.”

“Look, I’ll buy you a new car,” Kyle said. “Give me a business card, and I’ll get you the money. I just need to be gone before the police come.”

With a look like pity on his face, the driver handed over a business card. “I don’t know how you can live with yourself, but—” Suddenly, his eyes glazed over, and his voice got much louder and deeper, booming into the night: “The true consequences will fall upon you.”

Kyle shook his head, not trusting what he had just seen. “Excuse me?”

The driver spoke in his normal voice, seemingly unaware of his previous statement. “I said that I don’t like it, but I’m going to need some money to pull myself out of this. I’ll say that I couldn’t find you to pick you up, but the app wouldn’t let me cancel.” He looked at Kyle in desperation. “Just get me that money soon.”

Kyle walked away as fast as he could, staying close to the trees until he was well out of sight.

* * *

At home, Kyle couldn’t take his mind off of the incident. He tried to rationalize it to himself—if the young man were smart, he’d have a hefty life insurance payout to leave his loved ones. Kyle sold several policies like that every week. He wondered if the man might even have been one of his clients.

That was too much. Kyle went down to his cellar to find some wine to steady his nerves. The cellar was his pride and joy, costing almost as much as the rest of the house, and was stocked with some of the most famous vintages known to man.

His eyes settled on a 1978 Pinot Noir. “As good as the Burgundy region ever produced,” he said to himself approvingly. Perfect to bring him back to the birthday mood.

Upstairs, he dimmed the lights and put on a quiet record. He poured himself a glass, taking time to savor the silky earthiness of the wine. “At this price, no sense letting it oxidize,” he decided, staying up later than he’d planned but enjoying every sip until the unpleasant situation was a fuzzy memory.

* * *

It was tempting to take the morning off, but Kyle prided himself on working through anything, no matter how terrible he felt. He kept the lights low and had his secretary take messages rather than patching through his phone calls, but it was still rough going.

When noon came, Kyle decided to head home for a quick nap. His stomach wasn’t feeling well, and he didn’t think he could eat anyway.

His secretary stopped him before he made it to the door. “Davis Portier would really like you to call him today. He’s really distraught because—”

“Can this please wait until after lunch?” Kyle asked. “I’m not feeling great myself. If he and Nikki need to reschedule our round of golf—”

“Because his wife passed away in her sleep,” the secretary finished.

“Nikki?” Kyle asked, shaken wide awake once again. “Nikki Portier died? She can’t even be 50. How did it happen?”

“47,” the secretary confirmed. “Born in 1978. He said that nothing seemed out of place. She just didn’t wake up this morning. Anyhow, he’s hoping you can call him. He’s got some questions about Nikki’s policy.”

“Of course, of course,” Kyle responded.

After throwing up in the parking lot, it was all he could do to doze in his car for twenty minutes before heading back inside.

* * *

That evening found him, once again, searching the cellar for inspiration. Normally, he wouldn’t go for two high-end bottles on consecutive nights, but he felt the need for something exceptional to distract him. Perhaps something from the Bordeaux region.

A couple of bottles caught his attention. “1959 was a great year on the Right Bank, but it’s hard to beat 1961 on the Left.” He replaced the 1959 bottle on the shelf. “The Cab Sauv blend it is.”

* * *

His head was clear in the morning. He made a note to buy another bottle of the 1961 wine and picked up some breakfast on the way to work. Traffic was backed up much more than usual. After crawling forward for half an hour, he saw that the main road was closed in both directions, with cars detouring onto a small side road.

Forty-five minutes later than the day before, Kyle opened his office door. His secretary greeted him with a sympathetic look. “It’s just horrible, isn’t it?” she asked.

It was the worst traffic he’d seen in years, Kyle reflected. “Definitely not a great start to the day,” he agreed.

“Should we…I mean, do you think…well, what would you recommend this morning?” his secretary asked.

“I’ve got a couple of cold breakfast wraps that need my attention,” Kyle replied. “Can we talk in 15?”

Wordlessly, his secretary nodded her head.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, there was a timid knock at the door.

“Kyle, I know it’s early, but I think it’s best that we contact the family somehow. Maybe flowers or a fruit basket or something?”

He looked up at his secretary. “I’m sorry. Contact whose family?”

“Well, the Fischers, of course.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, Kyle, I thought you had heard. The big accident on Evans Street.”

“The Fischers died? Steve and Edith?”

“Well, I’ve heard that Edith died on scene. Steve’s in the hospital, but it sounds quite serious.”

Kyle couldn’t believe it. What a week this had been. And now two of his earliest clients.

The secretary was holding two folders. She handed him the top one, and he glanced at the label: Fischer, Edith. DOB: 5/9/1961.

He froze. 1961. A vision of the previous day came to his mind. Hadn’t Nikki Portier been born in 1978?

“Grace,” he asked his secretary. “Was Steve Fischer by any chance born in 1959?”

She looked at the label on the second folder. “Very impressive. August 18, 1959. I don’t know how you remember these things, but—”

Kyle rushed past her and out the door. He saw that somebody had cleaned up his mess in the parking lot since yesterday. Hopefully the cleaners would be back today…

* * *

It was too much to be a coincidence. Still, the years lined up perfectly. And Kyle couldn’t forget the voice, warning him about the consequences of running away from the dead pedestrian. Had he imagined it, or was the driver briefly possessed, giving Kyle a vision of the future that his self-preservation—in reality, his cowardice—would bring?

He would take no chances tonight. He looked longingly at the 1989 Rioja on his counter, a birthday present that hadn’t yet made it to the cellar. He couldn’t even remember who gave it to him, but he reflected that it was clearly someone who had done their research and made some good connections.

For the first time, he noticed a small tag hanging from the neck of the bottle. It was signed simply with a heart and the letters MV. “Maren Villanueva,” he said. “A secret wine connoisseur, or just a very thoughtful gift.” He wished he had recognized and commented on the vintage at the party.

It was a difficult evening, and Kyle couldn’t get interested in a book or anything on television. He found an old favorite movie on his laptop and eventually fell asleep on the couch.

* * *

The late nights were getting to him. He woke up only half an hour before work and had to scramble to get out the door. Evans Street was reopened, but he was definitely behind schedule. And his cell phone was still charging on the kitchen counter. He hadn’t even thought to look at it this morning.

His secretary was in tears when he entered the office. “Kyle, we weren’t expecting you to make it in today. I’m so sorry.”

Everyone in the office seemed to be gathering around, some with tears running down their cheeks, while others fought, mostly unsuccessfully, to hold their emotions inside.

“We know she meant a lot to you,” his partner Gwen began.

He couldn’t wait for the rest. There was no way he could handle receiving news like this—whatever it was—with a crowd staring at him.

The parking lot hadn’t been cleaned today. “It’s just as well,” Kyle thought, “because here comes some more.”

* * *

Knowing that the news would be devastating, Kyle picked up his phone. Three missed calls from Maren, all in a row beginning at 2:08 a.m. And a text from Roland: “Kyle, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Maren and her brother were killed last night. Sounds like someone broke into their home.”

Maren. They had been playing the relationship slowly for over a year, both teasing the first move but knowing that they were destined for each other.

She was gone. And at such a young age. Her words from the party came back to him: “I’ve only got four years until my forties.” That would place her birth year as…1989. And her brother Parker—her twin brother Parker—as well.

His selfishness had cost him the future he had dreamed of. He looked around the house, at the opulence he had thought would bring happiness. At the home he would never share with Maren.

The true consequences will fall upon you.

He fell to his knees, sobbing. His eye caught the bottle of Rioja, and he was tempted to smash it on the floor. But it was all he had left of her.

And, he realized, that would never be enough.

Choosing not to drink the wine hadn’t saved her. If anything, his attempt to cheat death had made things worse, since Parker was dead as well.

There was no telling how many more would be punished for his sin. There was only one way to save the others.

Kyle walked slowly to the cellar and picked up a bottle he had been saving for years. He had intended to open it on his fiftieth birthday, but the time had come.

Even at such a dark time, Kyle couldn’t help but be impressed. “1985 Barolo. A truly special year in Piedmont.”

He put on his favorite record and dimmed the lights. He took the time to smell the cork, appreciating its cherry and earthy aromas. He poured a full glass and looked to the sky. “For you, Maren,” he whispered. He took a sip. “I’m on my way.”

---

Kevin Hogg is a high school Law and History teacher in British Columbia’s Rocky Mountains. He holds a Master of Arts degree in English Literature from Carleton University. He has published 18 short stories, many of them containing slipstream or supernatural elements. Outside of writing, he spends much of his time in nature and is a certified forest therapy guide. His website is https://kevinhogg.ca.