Page 37 of Existential
EIGHTEEN
Dagne
All I can hear is the sound of blood rushing past my ears as Hooch draws his gun and approaches the trailer. Fuck this shit. Why did I agree to do this? I’ve never had trouble cutting and running before, even if it put the other person out. So why is it he makes me want to please him?
You know why, you stupid girl.
Because he hurts, like I do. The second-guesses, the self-doubt, it’s there in his eyes. Something has happened to make him feel as though he has to make up for it—every damn day. I know it. I feel it.
His wide frame disappears through the door, and I stand at the hood of the truck, holding my breath. Mere seconds later he emerges a damn sight more relaxed, and with a brunette in tow.
Why the hell does that make me so jealous?
I push the unwarranted feeling aside and lift my fingertips to my bottom lip. A habit I haven’t employed for years. I always drum my fingers in a pattern on my lips when I’m anxious.
The two of them start toward me, and given his relaxed demeanor, I start their way as well. We meet in the middle of the clearing.
“Dagne. This is my sister, Mel.” Hooch steps aside with a proud smile on his face. He loves her. And even though he’s just told me their related, I’m jealous of that.
Damn it all.
“Hi,” I offer with a smile.
She eyes me a moment, more than likely sizing me up. “Nice to meet you.”
“Mel’s been off the radar for a year, laying low. That’s why I didn’t come here myself,” Hooch explains. “I didn’t want to lead the feds here, but …” He gestures to the abandoned car.
“Where are they?” I ask.
“Indisposed,” Mel answers, promptly biting her bottom lip to stifle a grin.
Hooch rolls his eyes. “She shot him when she panicked.”
They’re both so … cavalier about the whole thing. “Oh. Wow.”
“Hmm.” Hooch lifts one hand to his beard, stroking it as he sizes up the truck.
“No,” I protest. “I can see what you’re thinking, and no. I’m not getting that involved in whatever the hell’s going on here. Stash the body in the truck, fine, but I’m out of here.”
“You’re already an accessory by being here,” Mel states simply. “Besides, I can drive and then you can plead ignorance. Say you’re a hitchhiker or something.”
“No,” Hooch argues. “I don’t want you gettin’ seen.”
“What then?” she bites back, turning to face him with her arms folded. “I hide under the tarp with him?” Her arm extends toward the trailer. “We can’t ditch the body here; it would take too long to dig a hole, let alone walk far enough away for it to take a while to be discovered.”
I’m not here. I’m totally not in the middle of a murder scene.The murder of a goddamn law official. What the hell is wrong with these people?
“Won’t they be looking for the guy you shot?” I ask, drawing both their attention my way.
“Yeah, they will,” Mel answers.
The two of them continue to bicker about the best way to deal with the mess as I wander away to the tree line. Tiny daisies dot the grass beneath my feet, and I stoop to pluck one from its base, twirling the stem between my fingers as I straighten up. There’s beauty to be found everywhere, in any situation—you just have to know how to look for it.
I lean against the trunk of a tree, shaking my head at my own stupidity for letting myself get sucked into this. Was the money really worth it? Even when I’ve shaken these crazy people, I’m going to live with the guilt that I was an accomplice to the disappearance of an official, a lawman—or woman.
Is total freedom worth these kinds of hiccups along the way?
I pierce a hole in the stem of the daisy with my nail, looping the end through it to make a crude ring. As I adjust the flower on my index finger, a dull whine drifts past me on the light breeze. Is that …? Tipping my head to the side, I focus on blocking out the sound of Hooch and Mel arguing to my right, and tune into the sound on my left.