What did he learn from this? That someone shot a woman, buried her like literal shit on a hiking trail?
But now heknewthere was someone there. Knew where to start, at least, in trying to identify her.
His guilt intensified. What if he couldn’t help? What if he’d dug her up for nothing? It didn’t matter if things would reset tomorrow, that her grave would be undisturbed once more. It had still happened, and it was wrong.
Silence permeated the car like a stench. Boris turned on the radio again. Accompanied by intermittent static, they wound down the misty road. Trees twisted in the wind, branches reaching out like desperate, grasping arms.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Jack fought back nausea.If he threw up, there was no way Boris would bother cleaning the seat. Scrubbing it with one of the towels in the trunk wouldn’t be enough. And Jack couldn’t condemn anyone to a lifetime of driving a car that stank any worse than this one already did.
Not that it mattered. If Jack’s theory was wrong (and it probably was), the vomit would be gone by tomorrow. Regardless, the car was on the verge of falling apart. Sooner or later, Boris wouldn’t be able to drive it anymore.
They pulled onto the main road and Boris said, “This was my dad’s car. I haven’t cleaned it since I got it.”
“Oh,” said Jack, turning to look at him. “I’m sorry. How long?—”
“Four months, maybe.” Boris drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I dunno. I don’t really remember.” He sighed. “Whole fucking duplex was a disaster. I barely had the energy to deal with that, let alone the car.”
“What happened?”
“Massive heart attack. I guess he couldn’t reach the phone. It took a few days for anyone to find him,” said Boris, staring straight ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry,” said Jack again. A thousand responses raced through his mind. None seemed adequate.
“It’s OK,” said Boris. “He was a mean motherfucker. I mean, obviously he fucked my mother.” A ghost of a grin. “But he was a fucking dick. We never talked.”
“I get that,” said Jack, ignoring a pang in his chest. He only spoke to his own father out of necessity, mostly because his parents were still together. If he wanted to talk to his mother, he sometimes had to acknowledge his father. “It’s not your fault.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“I know, I just—look, I’m trying to be nice.”
Boris scowled, brushed a strand of hair from his face. “I know.”
“You seem like you want to fight.”
A frown. “Yeah. Maybe. Feels better than crying, ya know?”
Jackdidn’tknow. “I hate conflict.”
“Ugh,” groaned Boris. “That sounds so boring. You’re boring.”
Silence. Jack leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes.
“Fine. I won’t try to fight you anymore. You never take the bait, anyway. Listen,” said Boris, running a hand through his hair. “You wanna stop at mine before I take you back to the hotel? You need a fucking shower.”
“Oh,” said Jack, too shocked by this newfound generosity to decline. “Sure. I guess. I mean, are you gonna be able to bring me back?”
Boris shrugged. “I gotta go back, anyway. I wasn’t really done with work. I just said that because I wanted to know what you were doing.”
“You still weren’t done with work? How long is your shift?” Jack cried, exasperated. He shouldn’t care. But there was something cruel in the amount of time Boris spent at the hotel. Something completely ridiculous and probably illegal.
“I didn’t want to go home,” Boris said sheepishly. “I took a twenty-four hour shift on purpose.”
“It’s been more than twenty-four hours,” said Jack. “Trust me, I know.”
