And… the naked-woman-in-the-boot hasn't made a sound in over two hours.
Not since I shoved her in there in Giovanni's driveway and peeled out like the hounds of hell were nippin' at my heels.
Not one word since then.
Not one scream. Not one demand, or threat, or promise of revenge.
Just... nothin'. Dead quiet. The kind of silence that feels unnatural. Too still for somethin' that should be fightin' back.
And Christ, that's a poor choice of words, isn't it?
Deadquiet.
What do I do if she's dead?
The question surfaces before I can stop it, risin' up from the depths of my mind like somethin' dragged from dark water, and immediately my brain starts doin' what it does best—calculatin', analyzin', buildin' models of scenarios I don't want to be thinkin' about. Runnin' through possibilities like some kind of twisted mental exercise I never asked for, but can't seem to stop.
Could she suffocate back there? The boot's not airtight, but it's not exactly well-ventilated either. This whole car carries thescent of gasoline fumes. What if it's carbon monoxide and she asphyxiated herself, minus the sexual satisfaction?
How would I explainthatto Giovanni?
Sorry, mate, meant to rescue your woman but accidentally gassed her instead. Technical difficulties. My bad.
Christ.
Not exactly the redemption arc I was hopin' for.
And what would I even do with the body? Can't exactly leave her on the side of the road. Can't drive her back to Boston—Uncle Fearghus would lose his entire fuckin' mind. Can't bury her without equipment. Not gonna find me pickaxin' in a dark forest tonight, Satan. Not tonight.
This is why I don't do spontaneous.
This right here.
Pattern-seekers needplans.
I listen—really listen—strainin' to hear somethin' over the engine's rumble. Anythin'. A shift of movement. A cough. A whimper. The sound of someone very much alive and very much angry about bein' locked in a boot against her will.
Nothin'.
I should pull over.
The thought hits me at mile marker forty-three, and I actually lift my foot off the accelerator before talkin' myself out of it. I can't stop here—not on the highway.
Five more miles to the cabin. Just five more miles. What's the point of stoppin' now when I'm almost there anyway?
How many Hail Marys for kidnappin' your best friend's naked woman and killin' her on the ride to rescue?
This actually makes me scoff.
Rescue? Rescue, Lorcan? Ya fancy yourself a hero, do ya?Well, now you've got a dead woman in the boot for yer troubles.
This is what I get for stickin' my fuckin' nose into other people's business. Why? Why do I always insist on fucking savin' people?
It's in your nature, boy…
Fuck off, Father Patrick. No one asked ya.
But he doesn't fuck off. He never fucks off.
