“I’ll get it back to you,” Derek mumbled. “I’ll pick up another car and I’ll leave yours somewhere and then I’ll call you and let you know where it is.”
There was so much wrong with Derek’s statement, Greg didn’t know where to begin. Where and how would Derek get another car without a job or any money? And even if he could manage that, how was Greg supposed to get to Jacksonville or Fargo or East Bumfuck or wherever Derek ditched the car in order to pick it up? And how was he supposed to stand any chance of salvaging his marriage to Brenna—which he suddenly, desperately wanted to do—if he gave their meager savings away to a confessed murderer, even if that man was his own brother?
But detailing the absurdity of Derek’s statement would be pointless. It would be like talking to a brick wall. Greg was familiar enough with addictive behavior to know that junkies can rationalize anything. They learn the skill early in their drug use because it’s the only way to live with the pain they bring to their family and friends.
So he ignored Derek’s words and instead said, “If you want to skip town, why not just use the car that’s sitting out front of my house? Why involve me and Brenna at all?”
Derek scoffed. “Did you see that thing? I’d be lucky to make it to the state line in that piece of shit. Besides, I need money, too.”
Greg pursed his lips, thinking. “You look like death warmed over. Let’s get you something to eat and then we can head to the bank, I guess.”
“No. I might look like shit but I feel even worse than I look. There’s no way I could keep any food down right now. Besides, I just got done telling you about Crowder. He’s got his goons scouring the city for me.”
Greg shook his head and sighed.
Derek huffed angrily and said, “I can’t afford to sit in a restaurant eating eggs and drinking coffee. I have to get out of here while I can, and before the cops figure out who killed those two people last night in Boxford. It should take some time to connect me to them, but if I’m anywhere near here when that happens, I won’t stand a chance. Please, Greg.”
He shook his head again and hit the gas.
8
They were in the parking lot of the diner, Greg knew, before Derek realized what was happening. He’d more or less zoned out, staring through the windshield while keeping his knife handy, still fingering it nervously on his lap. Greg didn’t even feel badly about tricking him; if his fuckup brother intended to take his car and his money and split, sitting down to breakfast with him was the least he could do.
Maybe the extra time would allow him to figure some way out of this mess, and even if not, God knew Derek could use some nutrition. He’d never been stocky, even as a kid, but years of drug use and street living had rendered him beanpole-thin, all bones and angles and bad skin.
Greg pulled the Mustang to a stop and Derek blinked rapidly, as if roused suddenly from a deep sleep. “I don’t see any ATM,” he said. “Where is it?”
“The ATM’s next. First we’re gonna eat.”
“I told you I can’t eat,” Derek spat. “I’ve gotta get the fuck out of here.”
Greg ignored him and stepped out of the car. He thought about escaping, just slamming his door closed and sprinting off along the sidewalk. It would be a simple matter to get away with his brother still climbing out of the car and the vehicle taking up space between the two of them. He probably wouldn’t even have to run if he didn’t want to; Derek was so obviously dopesick he likely couldn’t match a brisk walking pace. Greg held his keys in his hand, so he wouldn’t even lose his car.
But taking off would accomplish nothing. Derek would be stranded, and even more desperate than before, when he’d taken the extreme step of threatening Brenna with a knife. If Greg were to save himself it was almost a sure bet someone else would get hurt.
He was nobody’s idea of a hero, or even of a selfless individual for that matter. Most of the time he knew he acted like a selfish, egocentric jerk. But he simply couldn’t take the chance that another innocent person would be injured or killed by his own brother just because he couldn’t deal.
“Goddammit, Greg.” Derek shot out of the passenger side faster than Greg would have predicted, and he glared over the Mustang’s roof, his bloodshot eyes hooded and furious.
Across the parking lot a cop was approaching on foot. Greg hadn’t seen the man when he pulled into the diner’s lot and he immediately wished he’d kept driving. Derek had said the police would have no way of knowing the identity of the killer who’d slain two people in Boxford in a botched home invasion, but he wasn’t exactly a criminal mastermind. There were lots of ways his assessment could be way off base.
Maybe he’d been caught on video surveillance. Plenty of people, especially rich ones, used CCTV for security now; it was relatively cheap and always on duty.
Maybe he’d left fingerprints at the scene. Hell, it was likely he’d left fingerprints at the scene. And shoe prints and probably DNA, to boot. And as a homeless vagrant addict, Derek was almost certainly known to the local police. Maybe it would take awhile to identify the killer, maybe not.
And there was another possibility. It apparently hadn’t occurred to Derek but it was the first thing that came to Greg’s mind when his brother had said Crowder was looking for him.
He pushed the negative possibilities away for the moment as he
