“Surprise, bitch. I bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.”
She fights harder.
Her elbow smashes against the door panel while her nails scrape across my wrists.
Each breath sucks the plastic tighter against her mouth.
Seth reaches forward and shoves the driver’s seat lever down. The seat drops back hard as he grabs the man by the collar and hauls his body acrossthe console, forcing the weight of him into the backseat beside Sophie. Blood smears across the leather as the corpse collapses against the door.
Seth slides behind the steering wheel, adjusts the seat forward, and starts the engine. The SUV pulls smoothly away from the curb and disappears into traffic. A few cars back, Beau falls in behind us.
No one outside notices anything.
Inside the vehicle, Sophie’s movements begin to weaken. Her hands keep clawing at the plastic but the strength behind them fades quickly. Sophie’s body sags forward.
I keep the bag tight for several more seconds. Her fingers slip from my wrists and her head drops against the seat. I drive the needle into her neck and press the sedative in. Her body goes limp almost immediately.
I loosen my grip and pull the plastic away from her face.
Sophie collapses sideways across the seat, unconscious. The boutique shopping bag has fallen to the floor and several pieces of clothing spill halfway out.
Seth glances at us through the rearview mirror.
“Is she out?”
“Yes.”
He nods once and turns onto the main road.
In the back seat, Sophie’s chest rises slowly with each breath. I lean back and watch her.
This time she isn't escaping her karma.
We bring Sophie back to the motel once the sedative drags her under completely. Her head slumps against the seatbelt, mouth slack, eyes rolled half-open in that empty, drugged way.
The dog crate sits in the middle of the bedroom floor, metal bars dull under the yellow light, hinges rusted near the base.
Seth carries her in first. Her limbs hang loose, dead weight in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. He sets her down on the bed and steps back while I check her pulse and watch her eyes for any sign of awareness.
We drag the crate into the bathroom and wedge it beside the tub. The thing is old and ugly, but the latch holds firm when I test it.
Seth lifts her again and eases her inside the crate. Her body folds awkwardly, but he forces her knees up and shoulders down until she fits, spine bent, cheek pressed against the steel floor. I grab her wrists and guide them through the front bars, one at a time, until both arms stick out past the metal.
Her hands dangle in the air, fingers limp and palms up.
I wrap zip ties around each wrist and cinch them tight to the bars. The plastic digs into her skin, pinning her bones against cold metal so she has nowhere to move once she wakes up. I test the restraints by pulling her hands toward me. The bars don't give. Her arms stay locked in place.
I go to the sink and pull open the drawer where the motel keeps its repair tools. A small hammer sits inside, the metal head worn and stained, the handle scuffed from use.
I take it and walk back.
She is still out.
Her wrists hang through the bars of the crate, zip ties cinched tight, leaving them exposed with nowhere to go.
I crouch beside her and take a second to look at her right wrist. It looks fragile. Too fragile for everything she has done. I adjust my grip on the hammer and line it up carefully over the joint.
I bring it down.
