Despite Eddie’s sudden and violent end, it’s pretty obvious what killed him (getting your head turned halfway around by a drunk driver can do that to a guy). However, his fame has led to worldwide curiosity and tabloid scrutiny, with millions of people scrambling fordetails. The Palm Springs medical examiner’s office will be double-checking every step of the process.
I’ve been asked to pick up specific corpses before, but never anyone with this kind of public attention. For all I knew, Eddie’s body could have a twenty-four-hour security detail.
My concerns were assuaged by the mysterious voice at the end of the line. The buyer informed me that my main job is transportation, and thatprocuringthe body was almost entirely sorted out by someone on the inside. I was given a time, a place, and simple instructions. The door would be unlocked.
Now, my giant refrigerated truck is settled at the edge of a parking lot, quiet and shrouded in darkness as I stare across the vast concrete space. At the far end of the lot sit two government medical facilities, and between them is a dead-end alley in which I’ve been instructed to make my pickup.
From here, I can see a handful of news channel vans, but they’re all crowded around the front of the western building, gearing up to harass some unlucky forensic pathologist who must eventually make the trek from their vehicle to the front lobby. The reporters look bored, like they’ve been out here for a long time and have little to show for it.
There were numerous rumors of Eddie’s sexual escapades throughout the eighties, any and all genders welcome. Despite this, the bi-con never really had any high-profile relationships to speak of. Even in his advancedage, Eddie somehow avoided locking things down with any one suitor. All that is to say, while there’s plenty ofpublicinterest in Eddie’s death, anypersonalconnections feel notably absent. There are no family members here, only journalists.
My eyes linger on the dark alley nestled between the two buildings, an open maw of shadows beckoning me onward—a trap ready to spring. The second I pull in there I’ll be cornered on all sides, forced to back up awkwardly should I need to abort the mission. This fact makes me extremely uncomfortable, but what other choice do I have?
Should I sayfuck itto five million dollars? Should I walk away and call it a night?
The simple fact that half a million is already sitting in my bank account makes this play worth considering, if only for a moment. It’s enough to build a life out of, and with a few strategic investments, that money could grow some serious legs. Even if I did nothing more than park the cash in a high-yield savings account, my passive earnings alone would change everything.
I’m not here for a piece of the action, though, I’m here for the whole fucking thing. Eventually, Marlo will realize that she was born into a family of sharks, not a school of fishes who nibble on the scraps of life before darting away.
I pull out my phone and press Noah’s name on the Recent Contact’s list. He answers quickly.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
“Marlo’s asleep.”
“Howwasshe doing?”
Noah hesitates. “She’s mad at you,” he admits, although that’s not much of a surprise.
I sit with this for a moment, letting the emotions wash over me. I knew this was coming, and in many ways, I don’t blame her.
After twelve years in a group home, then six more with an adoptive family that never gave a shit about me, I know what it’s like to feel abandoned by my parents. Still, perspective is everything. I’ve given Marlo anincrediblelife thus far, and a little gratitude would be nice—the tiniest bit of recognition while I’m out here hunting the cold ocean depths.
“Well,fuck mefor giving her a life I never could’ve even dreamed of,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head.
Noah says nothing.
I wanted this to be some kind of “last words to my friends and family” situation, a final statement in case I’m seconds away from walking into a federal sting operation. Apparently, I can’t muster the grace for more than a bitter aside.
Well, I suppose there’sonething I can add.
“Thank you, Noah,” I finally continue. “I know I can be a little … harsh sometimes. I really don’t mean to be. I just wanna say, I appreciate you so much. From the bottom of my heart. I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend like you.”
“Are you about to die?” Noah laughs. “You sound like you’re about to die.”
“Not yet.”
“Well, that’s very sweet of you,” he says. “Youcanbe a little harsh, but sometimes that’s what it takes to get the job done.”
I crack a smile. Of all the things he could’ve said, that’s the most Poppy Stringer compliment I could ask for. I’m not even sure if he really means it, but it hits me just the same. For the briefest flickering moment, I actually feel seen.
“I’ll check in again before it gets too late,” I say. “It’s gonna be a long night, though.”
“I’ll be here,” Noah replies. “Good luck.”
We hang up, and I give myself five whole seconds to feel these strange emotions, whatever they are. When those five seconds end, however, everything changes.
I sit up straight and pull on a ski mask, then start the engine. I’m careful not to turn on my lights, gliding toward the alley with my head on a swivel as I scout for any other vehicles that might be tracking my movements. Nobody seems to notice as I cruise along like a lone, quiet hunter.
