No one can discover his body. And definitely not with me standing over it.
Stepping around him, I hurry out of the alley and jog back towards the line of shops where I’d parked earlier. My pulse races in my ears at this unfortunate turn of events, but my frustration is somehow sharper than my fear.
How the hell did a simple lead hunt turn into me having to clean up a murder scene?
I had no choice, of course. It was either him or me, I tell myself firmly as I push down the thudding guilt in my chest. I have nothing to regret. If anything, his fucking greed is to blame.
My rental car is right where I left it, and I unlock it with shaking hands. I slide into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and carefully navigate through the streets—down the block, along the side street, then circling back into the alley until my trunk is positioned directly in front of the crumpled body.
No time to second-guess, I cut the engine and climb out, the cold air biting at my flushed face.
I take a deep breath and dig my hands under my would-be captor’s legs, gritting my teeth as I strain to heave him off the filthy ground. Jesus—he’s heavier than he looked alive. Dead weight is a different kind of animal; his body is slack, limbs flopping uselessly, turning what should have been a quick job into a damn workout.
“Come on, you piece of shit,” I mutter viciously, hauling him in short, awkward pulls while keeping my footing off the wet patches.
He teeters against the trunk, my arms straining to keep him steady. I shift my grip—one hand under his shoulders, the other around his belt—and leverage his upper body onto the edge. His head thumps sickeningly against the bumper, an arm catching at a stupid angle, and I have to twist and maneuver him like some grotesque puzzle piece to wrestle him the rest of the way inside. When I finally slam the trunk shut, my chest is burning from the effort, but anger edges out the fatigue.
This night is completely shot.
Another waste of time. And now I have to spend even more of it cleaning up this guy, scrubbing the trunk, and making sure nothing can be traced back to me. Fuck, I’m no different from the Nightshades and all the other criminals out there.
The thought sits heavy while I walk to the passenger side and take out the gallon of bleach—leftover from when I first cleaned the rental to get rid of the musty smell and some stains the company hadn’t managed to remove. I march back to theblood pool and generously douse it in bleach, including the drag marks.
I don’t have enough time or patience to be as thorough as I should be, but I do my best, making sure every visible drop of blood is saturated with bleach. By morning, the cells should be wrecked; even if forensics show up, usable DNA will be gone.
Bad DNA means they can’t match the blood. If they can’t even ID the victim, there’s no case. Cameras in the area have been broken for ages too, which means I’m safe from discovery.
I rinse the blood off my hands with some bleach, screw the cap back on, and return the gallon to the passenger floor before circling around the hood to the driver’s side.
Sliding into the seat, I grip the steering wheel hard, trying to steady the tremor in my fingers. They’re clean now, but it doesn’t feel like it. I don’t even want to look at them.I can’t.
This bounty needs to disappear, or things are just going to keep spiraling like this. With my face plastered everywhere, anyone I approach for leads will recognize me instantly. And then what? What’s the goal of the damn bounty?
I drive for thirty minutes straight into Manhattan, making sure to stay under the speed limit and obey every traffic light. The last thing I need right now is getting pulled over by the cops with a dead body in my trunk.
That would be a spectacularly bad ending to an already terrible night.
The city lights blur around me as I drive, each flicker catching my eye. It feels like there’s a giant neon sign hovering over my car flashingLook! She just murdered someone!I gulp, my knees bouncing as jitters fill my body.
Soon enough, downtown Manhattan rises ahead, and the tallest building on the block comes into view—Rafael’s penthouse, the shining glass and steel like a constant reminder of who holds the power over the entire city.
I pull to a stop across the street, staring up at the penthousewindows, my jaw clenched. I should march up there and tell them to call off their dogs. Demand an explanation. Figure out what the hell is happening.
But you can’t, can you?
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, my body locking up completely.
What if Emily reallydoeshate me now? What if I walk in there and she looks at me with disgust? Or worse—tries to have me killed? After everything I’ve put her through, I’d deserve it. But I don’t think I could handle watching the one person who’s ever shown me unconditional love turn on me.
She’s the only friend, the only real ally I’ve made since losing first my parents and then Kayla. I couldn’t survive seeing her hate.
My throat burns as I watch the tower glow against the skyline.I can’t do it. Can’t confront her.
The air hisses out of my lungs, my head shaking at my own weakness. Changing course, I pull away from the curb and merge back into traffic.
Maybe I could talk to Romero instead. I was discovered in his borough, after all. Maybe I can try to find out why there’s a bounty on my head… make him see reason. Appeal to his logical, lawyer side. Something.Anything.
So, I drive for another thirty minutes, back to Brooklyn, towards Romero’s gated mansion with no real plan beyond ‘show up and hope he’s reasonable’.
