Page 66 of The Dearly Departed

Leonard’s body had been wrapped in a tarp and put in the back of the hearse.

The tracker on my phone had been wiped, all evidence that I’d been to this house or party erased.

He reiterated that, before I left the house, I was to allow Dean to take my measurements so that they could ensure I always had a spare change of clothes or two kept at the house.

"And why would I need to do that?" I finally asked as I pulled the sweatpants on, surprised that they did fit my longer-than-average legs while the sleeves of the sweatshirt barely touched my wrists.

Gerald glanced at me with a patronizing look on his face as he smiled. "Just in case. You never know," was all he bothered to say before asking, "What does your schedule look like?"

"Why?"

"Just wondering," he said casually. "Not a big deal."

I studied him for a moment as he examined his fingernails, like he was looking for specks of dirt.

"When are you going to tell me what's going on? What the hell are you up to?"

He swung his gaze toward mine and shrugged. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"You're honestly telling me there's no reason you need my measurements or my schedule or anything? You have no fuckin' tricks up your sleeve?"

"Tricks?" He shook his head. "There are no tricks."

"Somehow, I don't believe you."

"Well, that's on you, kiddo," he said.

Then he yawned, stretching his arms overhead. "It's way past my bedtime, and my wife is waiting for me," he announced abruptly. "You remember your way downstairs?"

"I can figure it out."

"Good," he said. "I'll see you soon."

Then he left the room, and as soon as he was gone, in walked Dean, holding a tape measure.

***

The hearse was left on the large circular driveway, just outside the house’s main entrance. I dared to peek through the back window, between the drapes, and saw the form of a body wrapped in a white sheet.

All at once, the events of the night steamrolled over me, pummeling my gut repeatedly, and I tore the stupid mask off my head, letting it hang from my hand as I bent over and heaved, expelling what little bit of sustenance was in my stomach.

I'm a murderer.

I squeezed my eyes shut and heaved again, an uncontrollable reaction to the vision of the man's convulsing body.

That was my fault. I had done that.

I'd taken him away from his family. He was someone's father, husband, son, friend, brother. I hadn't even known his name.

Would that make it better? I wondered. Would it change things to put a name to the face?

My hand gripped the side of the hearse as my body violently purged itself of bile and nothing, clenching and unclenching, until tears streamed from my eyes and sobs shook my shoulders.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

"Are you okay?"

Fuck. I gasped at the sound of her voice, nearly choking on vomit in the process.