Turner takes a deep breath in the seat beside me, reaching for the seatbelt. “Yeah, maybe so. I don’t know. I get lost in the moment, I guess.”
“Happens,” I mutter, feeling the back tires of my dually spin on the wet, icy roads. I shake my head, my mind flashing with the corpse of the woman with the slit throat. It’s a nasty one, but I don’t let it simmer in my mind.
“You think I’ll ever see Em again?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the question. “If you keep getting ambitious with the trigger, maybe not.” Honestly, I’m glad Turner finally found his reason to get ahold of his fragile mental state, but I’m not glad the reason is just as wishy-washy as his self-control.
I hate to break it to him, but some girl who showed up, was a victim of his chaos, and then he willingly abandoned… Well, she’s probablynotgoing to hang around.
They never do. And theyshouldn’t.
I’d never want my daughter exposed to the men I work with, but Turner doesn’t understand that imbalance yet. It’s a deeppain to look yourself in the mirror and know you’re not the kind of man you’d ever pick for your own flesh and blood.
Speaking of…I pull my phone out of my pocket, seeing the text from my daughter.
Molly: I hate being at Mom’s. Why can’t I stay at your place? I’m nineteen for fuck’s sake. I’m not a child.
I let out a sigh and choose to ignore it. I don’t know how to explain to her that too many unstable assholes know where I live. It’s not a good idea for her to be there without me. I never intended to be the rehabilitation center for wackos, but here I am.
And normally, I do a good job.
Right now? I’m on overload.
“Why a Christmas Tree Farm?” Turner looks to me as I pull up to a locked gate. “This seems…fucked up.”
“It’s closed for the season.” I roll down the window and punch in the gate code. “Lots of composting opportunities, too.” I leave it at that, not feeling like bringing up the commercial mulcher Cade has always gotten a real kick out of.
I don’t have the stomach for that though. Not tonight.
“Damn, this is fucked up,” Turner deadpans, as I pull through the gate. “Do you have to do this a lot?”
“No,” I answer plainly. “Normally, I have someone who does this for me, or we have a better set up.”
“Right,” Turner frowns. “You have a clean-up crew.”
More like one clean-up psycho who needs to be kept on a very tight leash.
I navigate down the asphalt drive, then take a hard left out into the field. I pause to kick it into 4-lo, and then stomp the gas. The truck roars through the mud, never missing a beat as I make it out to the furthest field.
The rain is now coming down in sheets, and I grimace.
Four fucking bodies. We have to deal with four bodies in this weather.
I squint through the windshield, searching for the excavator that sits out in the field. My family opened this damn Christmas Tree Farm forty years ago, and Ineverexpected it to become a mass burial ground.
If it ever got out, I’d be royally fucked.
Along with the government who sent half the bodies here.
“At least we don’t have to do it by hand,” Turner comments, as I pull in beside the large yellow piece of equipment.
“Finding the silver-lining,” I grunt, reaching out and patting his shoulder. “That’s a positive, even if it’s fucking morbid as hell.”
He gives me a crooked grin. “Progress.”
“Progress,” I snort, and then kick my door open. “Sit tight. This is gonna take a minute.” I adjust my cowboy hat, and fish the keys out of my pocket for the machine. I’m careful as I climb the steps and unlock the door.
The sound of the rain drowns out even my diesel truck, and I shake my head at the mess we’re about to make. I thought tonight was going to be no big deal.
