Spotting it, he’d dropped his heavy load in front of the rocks and sprinted back to his car, terrified that his radio might be going off while he was away.
Not until he’d flung himself back into the vehicle had he realized he should have at least dumped the body in the ditch until he could return.
He needed to keep a cooler head.
Before even removing the body from Kaitlan’s bed, he had thought to untie the black and green cloth from its neck. That cloth was long disposed of. Even if by some wild fluke this body
Craig threw down the flashlight and attacked the wall. Yanking up stones he dropped them to one side. Before long his arm muscles screamed and his breath chugged. Sweat beaded down his forehead and plinked into his eyes.
Desperation drove him on. He had to get back to Kaitlan.
When he’d knocked the wall down, he dragged the near-rigid body to the four-foot-long ditch and pushed it in.
Feverishly he shoved stones over the top. When the bag was fully covered, he used the rest of the rocks to build up the height of the wall, now shorter, thicker.
Finished, chest heaving, he snapped on the flashlight for a brief moment and inspected his work.
Good. It was good.
Craig swiped his forehead and rushed through the dark to his Mustang.
thirty-five
Kaitlan huddled on the edge of the bed in the Jensons’ front-corner guest room. Right hand pressed against the wall, she leaned forward to peer through the window. Every back muscle strained, her shoulders and neck like granite. The last dregs of light from a lamp post down the street oozed onto the sill in a sickly puddle.
From the entryway a massive grandfather clock’s fretting
Where was Craig?
Kaitlan struggled to figure how much time had passed since he left. Seemed like an eternity. But it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. Maybe less.
How long did it take to dispose of a body? Would he weight her down in the ocean or bay? Bury her deep in the woods?
Kaitlan breathed against the window and the glass fogged. She pulled back.
Maybe her grandfather was wrong. Craig was in bed asleep, the victim’s body long ago hidden. He didn’t want to kill Kaitlan at all. But now her disappearance would force his hand.
A yowl rose outside the window.
Kaitlan froze.
A second wail pierced the night, mixing pain and anger and defilement. The sound sawed through Kaitlan’s nerves.
At the third cry she recognized the sound.
Kaitlan sucked in air, trying to still her shaking limbs.
Long moments passed. Time filled only with the sound of her own breathing, the tick of the clock. Outside— no approaching car. Just echoing, mocking blackness.
Kaitlan tilted her wrist up near the window, trying to check her watch. How long had she been waiting?
The light was too dim to see.
She dropped her hand—and sudden anger welled within her. After all her struggles to overcome her addiction and make a life for herself. Now that she had a baby to think about—this happened. It wasn’t fair. And she was not going to let it get the best of her.
Headlights spilled down the street.
Kaitlan jerked up straight. She listed toward the window, eyes glued to the road, waiting to see the car.
A realization punched her in the gut. She’d forgotten to ask Margaret what she drove.
The ghostly form of a vehicle materialized out of the dimness.
Kaitlan grabbed the window sill, willing the car to stop, her muscles tensed to sprint for the front door.
At the edge of the Jensons’ property line it slowed.
As she turned to run a sound registered. The rumble of an engine. Far too loud.
Kaitlan stilled. Looked back.
The car passed her window into shadows beyond the street lamp. It was a dark-colored Mustang.
OBSESSION
thirty-six
The glove box of my car had a glow around it.
For weeks after I’d put the strip of cloth inside, every time I slid into my car this strange euphoria would settle over me. I’d drive humming. Smile at red lights. Traffic no longer bothered me—I had the cloth for company. Besides, the longer I stayed in the car the better I felt.
I never touched the fabric. Never even opened the glove compartment. But I knew it was there. That’s all that mattered.
In one word my life was … contented. At work. At home. As for that party night and what I’d done—the memory faded.
Had it really happened at all?
If so, it had been necessary. The only right thing to do in such a situation.
I took to driving around just to be in my car.
One Saturday I ended up driving for hours. I found myself on the freeway headed south. After well over one hundred miles I turned around. The pleasant feeling had melted away and my insides had started to churn. It was barely noticeable at first. I thought heading back home might help. Maybe my subconscious was simply bored at driving for no reason.
My unease only got worse, like an itch deep inside me, moving around. Couldn’t be scratched. I shifted in the seat, leaned forward over the wheel, leaned back. Switched on the radio. The music sounded out of tune. I smacked it off.
Funny how the hillsides were graying. The sky muddied. The road, the horizon, everything seemed to run together. Even the colors of cars faded out.
The glove box heated up.
Its warmth radiated to me, skimming over my arms, brushing my face. I felt no fright. I wasn’t even surprised. Hadn’t I known all along?
My whole body started to sweat.
By the time I got home I couldn’t wait to slip that cool cloth through my fingers. Chill the burning of my skin.
That night I was supposed to go out with some friends. How to hide my angst? I wanted to cancel and stay home until it was time. But my rational side said no. I’d need as much alibi as I could create.
We went to dinner, then had a few drinks at a bar. Amazing how normal I was able to act. No one would have known a thing was wrong.
Leaving the bar around midnight, I cruised the streets. Twice I had to pull over and open the glove compartment. Feel the fabric.
The third time I hid it under my seat.
I spotted her on a lonely stretch of road. Her car was pulled over to the side, flashers on. She stood by the driver’s door, feet apart, hands to her mouth as if beside herself over what to do.
As soon as I got out of my car I recognized her. The mother on meth. The one who could only say “I don’t know” when asked why she was destroying her own life and the lives of her kids. At that moment the universe slid
