I walk over to where Bridger’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to solve a problem that keeps shifting. Neve stops whispering with him and moves to sit next to Marlowe. She’s coaxing Marlowe to eat some ofthe chips and the granola bar. Marlowe hesitates, but eventually, they start sharing the food. At least someone’s taking care of her, because I’m not sure I can do it without making a mess of everything.
I glance over at Bridger, lowering my voice. “We have to deal with Joel.”
He doesn’t argue, just nods slowly, his jaw tight. “Yeah. But eventually, we’ll have to deal with Clay, too.”
I rub the heel of my hand over my eyes, trying to scrub out the pressure building behind them. Feels like we’re constantly two steps behind. One problem solved just makes space for another. “If we leave Joel alive, he’s coming after Marlowe,” I mutter. “And us.”
Bridger’s quiet, eyes flicking over to where Marlowe is still picking at the food. Neve’s keeping her distracted, talking low and soft. I wish I could hear what’s being said. “She’s still got to worry about Vick,” Bridger says. “Even if Joel’s gone. You really want to kill her father too?”
I clench my teeth. No, I don’t. As much as I hate Vick for dragging Marlowe into this, for using her like some kind of pawn, I can’t bring myself to make that call. Killing Joel is one thing. Killing Vick? That’s something else entirely. “I don’t know what the hell we’re supposed to do,” I admit, frustration leaking out in a low growl. “If we take out Joel, Vick’s still a problem. And if we leave Joel alive, we’re screwed.”
Bridger scratches the back of his neck, looking about as done with this as I feel. “Well, Joel’s got to go no matter what. And then there’s Zero,” he says.
Right. The dead guy in the back of the SUV.
“What the hell are we going to do with his body?” I mutter. “Can’t exactly leave him in Arden’s parking lot.”
“We’ll have to move him,” Bridger says. “Somewhere remote. Clean up the mess before anyone else tracks us down.”
He’s right. We’ve got to take care of it, but the thought of driving out to the desert to bury him in the middle of the night doesn’t sit right. But we don’t have a choice. When Joel finds out Zero is dead, things are going to get worse, fast. We need to get rid of the evidence and figure out our next move.
Bridger puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing tight. “We’ll figure it out,” he says. “One step at a time.”
I can’t shake the feeling that no matter what we do, we’re already too deep to come out clean in all this. No one can find Zero’s body.
“Cody’s got Mom?” I ask.
“Yeah, they’re good. No worries there.”
“Yeah, right.” I grunt.
Bridger keeps talking, throwing out ideas about what to do with Zero’s body, about how to deal with Joel, but my focus drifts.
I can’t stop staring at Marlowe. She’s sitting on the edge of the vet’s worn-out couch, legs tucked under her, fingers toying with the crumpled chip bag. Neve’s saying something to her, but Marlowe’s not really listening.
My eyes move lower, tracing the dark, dried streaks staining her dress, her hands, even the side of her face. My blood. It’s all over her. It shouldn’t be. A sharp, unwelcome twist works through my chest, something primal and wrong. She shouldn’t be covered in it, shouldn’t look like that, like she’s been through hell. My hands flex, aching to fix it. To make it better. I cut Bridger off mid-sentence. “Give me a minute.”
He looks at me, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t question it.
I walk over to Marlowe, the ache in my side flaring with each step, but I don’t care. I stop in front of her, and she finally lifts her head, those tired, wide eyes meeting mine. “Come with me,” I say, voice low.
She doesn’t argue, just sets the bag down and stands, looking a little unsure.
I lead her down the hall to the small, dingy bathroom. It’s cramped, with a sink that’s seen better days. I close the door behind us, and for a second, the silence presses in.
She looks at me, confused. “What’s going on?”
I reach past her and turn the faucet on, lukewarm water trickling out. I grab a paper towel from the shelf, soaking it, and turn back to her.
She’s just staring at me, trying to figure out what I’m doing.
I take her hand gently, running the wet towel over her knuckles, wiping away the dark, rusty stains.
Her breath hitches, and I keep going, moving up her arm, careful around the scratches and bruises.
“You’re covered in it,” I murmur, almost to myself.
She doesn’t pull away, just watches me work. When I reach her cheek, I slow down, cupping her face with one hand as I wipe the blood from her skin. She closes her eyes, her lips parting just slightly.
