“Yes, actually. Is there a reason you haven’t come forward?” I reholster my weapon, doing my best not to touch anything. This sad fuck isn’t going to be a threat to me. He’s still drunk from the night before and half my size. “Is there a reward for information?” he asks, brow reaching up to his hair line.
“No.”
“Well, that’s a shame.”
“Do you have any information or not?” I growl.
He exhales a puff of smoke in my direction and jerks his shoulders. “I heard grunts, I thought someone was fucking in the alley, stopped to watch.” He licks his lips, giving me a look that makes me want to burn this shithole to the ground with him in it.
“But?” I encourage. This conversation is like pulling teeth. Maybe I should pull some of his teeth to move it along.
“This blonde chick did some weird karate move or some shit. Took some guy to the ground, then pulled out a gun and shot him. I ran, man. You can’t trust crazy chicks, you know?” He nods his head, gesturing to me like we’re on the same wavelength. What a fucking insult.
“So, you didn’t see the man attacking her? Could he have been, and you arrived after that happened?”
Shrugging, he sucks in another hit before stubbing out the cigarette on the corner of a side table. “Maybe.” He lifts a hand to his face and scratches at the stubble on his chin. “But she put him down. I wouldn’t want to meet her in an alley. She fucked his shit up.”
“You said she pulled a gun. She didn’t already have it out? Or maybe she took it from him?”
Shaking his head, he waggles a finger at me. “No. She pulled it from her purse.”
“You’re certain?” I urge.
“You need me to write this down or something? I’ll make a statement, but you have to get me some food or cash.”
Motherfucker. The gun was registered to Reese. This guy had to be mistaken or he’s making shit up, either way he’s going to make life very difficult for both Lola and me.
Lola took the gun from Reese, she was defending herself from a sicko and this drunken, disgusting, lying bastard is going to fuck everything up.
“Well?” he asks. My palm covers his whole face and I back him up, smashing his skull against a cupboard door. It’s fast—too fast for him to react. Twice, I plow his head into the wood panel until his legs give out beneath him and he falls to the floor. Adrenaline mixed with an overwhelming rush of sickness courses through my body. I know I’ve fucked up, but I can’t have this guy talking these lies to Snow or writing a false statement just to get free food or a cash reward. It makes Lola look guilty of murder. After learning about her self-defense classes, knowing she can defend herself will be the catalyst that puts her in prison if this goes to court.
I check his pulse, my heart roaring in my chest. He’s still alive. Blood leaks from a cut on the back of his head. Grabbing a cloth, I wipe down the cupboard and back out of the trailer, wiping down the door handle but leaving the door wide open.
Exiting the gate, I pull it closed, wipe my prints from it, and open my trunk, rummaging through a tool bag I keep back there. Pulling out a pair of pliers, I check around to make sure no one has come this way, then make my way over to the barking dog, managing to cut his chain from the safety of the other side of the fence. He tries jumping over it, but it’s too high. He paces the perimeter of the trailer, growling and foaming at the mouth before noticing the door to the trailer is open.
Starve a dog long enough and they’ll eat anything. Acid scratches at the back of my throat when the sounds of the dog chowing down reaches my ears.
Fast and in silence, I race back inside the gate and slam the door to the trailer shut locking them both inside. It will look like he fell while drunk and his starving pet ate him. I shoot Snow a text.
“No answer at the witness’s house. I’ll try again tonight.”
I need to shower and wipe the sounds from my memory. Once again, I’ve killed a man for my Lola, my sweet little lamb.
Chapter Eight
Lola
Simon is dodging my calls. I hate that he feels awkward about being so vulnerable with me, but decide to give him the time he needs. I enter his old surname into Google and bring up the case to gather as much information about his stepfather as I can. I’m going to go over to Simon’s childhood home and see if the evil scum had the balls to return to the scene of the crime. The internet tells me his mother stayed there, living at the scene of such brutal suffering. She should have gone to prison along with him. The house should burn, be turned to ash.
Writing down the address, I grab my purse, stuff my gun inside, slip on a hoodie, and step out onto the street.
Hairs raise on the back of my neck and a knot forms in my stomach as I pick up my pace. I’m going to need to take a bus and then walk the rest of the way. Fidgeting, I check the bus schedule and raise my hood over my head, concealing my hair, before slipping on a pair of shades. The sun is losing its battle with the night,
