I scribble Sara Jane Grayson on the form along with her parents’ names because they need to be told. I write my name as next of kin though. There’s no way I’m going to be blocked from knowing what happens or from being by her side.
Filling out the rest, I write my name down as responsible for the payments, and quickly scan the form and fill out everything I can.
Birthday.
Occupation.
Age.
Gender.
Address. I debate. The manor or her apartment? The manor.
Allergies.
Drugs—prescription and recreational.
What the fuck? I don’t know. I check no. I may not have seen her for some time, but I don’t think she changed that much.
The rest I don’t know. Who the fuck is her general practitioner? The doctor on campus? When was her last doctor’s visit? She’s on birth control . . . or she was . . . I have no fucking idea now. The woman I need in my life just to breathe has been gone for months. What do I know about her anymore?
I know her.
Better than myself.
I check mark birth control just in case and hand the forms back. “That’s what I know.” I look over her shoulder down the hall. “When can I get an update?”
She takes the clipboard and hands it to the nurse behind the counter, instructing her to add it to Sara Jane’s file. “It will be a few hours. The police should be here soon. You can wait over there. We’ll find you when we hear something.”
“Thank you.”
My face settles into an expression I’m sure reflects my worry. I won’t hear an update for hours, and I can’t sit still. Not here. Not with the police on their way. I’m about to run my hands through my hair but there’s dried blood under my nails, so I shove them in my pockets, hiding as much as I can, wishing I could hide my anguish as well.
I need to get out of here. I need air that isn’t filled with her last breath still lingering. I see a cop car parked at an intersection in the distance. Its blinker is on and it will be pulling in soon. What am I going to tell them? I need a story and I need it fast. I also need the facts from Cruise.
The doors glide open, and I walk out. Evening rays color the sky as the sun sets. It’s too beautiful in contrast to the tragedy I’m in the middle of. It’s unnerving the way the world keeps moving, revolving in time as if life will carry on without her.
It won’t. Mine won’t.
Walking to my car, I say, “Let’s go.” I open the door and duck inside. My elbow anchors on the door, and I lean my head on my hand while staring ahead.
Cruise drives, weaving through the parking lot, and I tuck the gun I’d discarded into the back of my jeans again. He asks, “We’re not staying?”
Looking at him, I shake my head. “I don’t know what to do. She’s in surgery, but the police will be here soon. I have to give a statement. What do I say? What the fuck even happened back there?”
“It doesn’t look good that you’re covered in blood. You should probably change.”
“The nurses saw me. I can’t hide that fact.” We’ve driven these familiar tree-lined roads a million times, but instead of their beauty, I only see the walls they form to hide the deceit that lives behind them. “I don’t feel my body. Should I feel something?”
Sighing, Cruise says, “I don’t know.”
“Is it wrong that I don’t feel anything?”
“It’s probably best.”
Reality settles in as I sit back. “I killed him.”
“Yeah.”
“I killed a man.”
“He deserved it.”
“What happens now though? What do we do?”
“Don’t worry.” Another sigh comes before he replies. “Jason is handling it.”
“Jason?”
“Jason Koster. Our lookout.”
Jason? Our lookout? Sara Jane’s watcher. “How is he handling it?”
“He just is.”
I scrub my dried blood-covered hands over my forehead and into my hair. “I’m going to prison, Cruise. He shot my girl. That fucker shot Sara Jane.” Saying her name out loud causes fear to override the numbness I feel. Sadness. Hopelessness. My eyes burn with tears, so I rub them. “Fuck. If she doesn’t make—”
“She’ll make it.”
“I would do it again. I’d kill that fucker.”
“We shouldn’t talk about it.”
My gaze shoots over, landing on him. His voice is too even, too calm. How? “Why?”
“We’re in deep, King. We need to figure out our story and don’t confuse it with miscellaneous details. Or emotions. It’s done. We’ll hear from Jason soon and then we can talk about the next step.”
“What the fuck, Cruise? You don’t tell me what the fuck we’re doing.”
“You’re not thinking clearly. You’re confusing your emotions with something that had to be done. You’re worried about Sara Jane, but she has a chance. Let’s give her that, and remember . . . that motherfucker killed Chad. Chad. Is. Dead. If you hadn’t done it, I would have.”
Chad is dead.
Chad. Is. Dead.
Fuck.
When I look back at Cruise, there are no tears in his eyes. Even the sadness when he mentioned Chad barely registered beneath the fa?ade of justified fury.
He was always the black sheep of his high-society family. John Cruise Control Cristley—the youngest, and only adopted son of John and Beatrice Cristley, a retired senator and his merry-making socialite wife. As the fifth child, he was doted on at first, but with power, something I’m familiar with in my own family, came obligations. Soon little John was left to his own devices. He’s a testament that you can’t beat the genes you’re born with, despite the environment you live in. His uptight, waspy upbringing never did override his tendencies toward the darker side of life. Maybe that’s why I liked him the first time I met him. There were no pretenses with him.
The nickname he got in prep school—Cruise Control—came about because he took everything in his stride. He has an innate ability to shift into neutral and coast through life. Apparently, even when it comes to murder.
I thought I was tough, ready to torch the earth for taking my mother. But as we approach the gate, I realize, maybe I didn’t need to set the fire that destroyed the world—that destroyed Sara Jane—my world. Maybe, just maybe, things didn’t have to get this out of hand.
Anger is a vengeful bitch.
She would have never settled for less. I know because she keeps returning to collect the penance I owe her. For what I owe, I still don’t know, but there’s no way one person can have this much bad without having done some major damage in a former life.
“Fucking Chad. What the fuck? He killed him. He killed Chad like he would kill me.” I run my hands through my hair, tugging on the ends this time. Shit. “What about Shelly? His parents? The kid never even held a gun yet he was gunned down with Sara Jane.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“I will,” I reply. “I owe Chad that much.”
“You don’t owe him anything. You’re not to blame for his death. That fucker is.”
“But why was he there?”
Cruise shrugs. “Wrong place. Wrong time.”
“No, that doesn’t add up. Why would he be with Sara Jane in the middle of nowhere? Why was Sara Jane even there?” Glancing over, I add, “Were they set up?”
“If they were set up, why them?”