“Where are you?”
“WhereamI? What kind of—”
“Can you come over? Grayson’s in trouble,” I say.
“Grayson? Oh—oh,shit, I—what happened?”
“Finley—” My throat closes; I can’t say it aloud.
“Finley what? What happened, Allison?”
I have no time for emotion. “Finley is dead,” I say. “I need your help.”
“Oh, God—I’ll, yeah, I’ll come right over.”
“No,” I say. “Listen carefully. Do exactly as I say.”
56
Allison
—7:01 p.m.—
Gather the facts, favorable and unfavorable. Then create a story, a narrative.
From the bedroom closet, I pull out an old gym bag of Finley’s and dump out the contents. I open his old shoeshine kit that he hasn’t used for over a decade.
I don’t have the facts yet. I need to be flexible, ready for whatever the evidence shows.
And I may need to create some facts of my own.
I grab a couple beach towels from the linen closet and throw them in the gym bag. Carry the bag down to the kitchen.
From the pantry, I remove a box of rubber gloves and add them to the bag. Two bottles of spray cleaner. A full roll of paper towels. A tube of antibacterial wipes.
From under the sink, I take the box of tall kitchen garbage bags. I doubt I’ll need all of them, but I’d rather have them and not need them than need them and not have them.
Pause and think. You’ll only get one chance at this—
Duct tape. Don’t forget duct tape. It’s in the cabinet above our kitchen workspace.
And, of course, the screwdriver.
I walk into the garage. Bend down by the front fender and insert the screwdriver into the top screw of my front license plate. The last time I pulled this stunt, things didn’t go so well.
This time, there’s no room for error.
57
Luke
—7:11 p.m.—
I pull my bike into Allison’s driveway and skid to a halt, sweaty and out of breath. I open her garage door with the key code and bring my bike inside. I’m heading for the door to the house when she startles me.
“I’m here,” she says, on her knees in the garage, holding her SUV’s front license plate.
“What are you doing?”
