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“I . . . why do you . . . ?” Shit. I couldn’t say what I knew I wanted to say. Why are you angry for my sake when this was something I did to myself? Why are you pissed on my behalf when I was the moron who got drunk and got into the car with him? Why don’t you hate me as much as I hate myself?
Monica’s expression softened though her mouth stayed hard. “Nobody deserves rape. Nobody.”
“But . . . but I wasn’t raped,” I blurted.
Her eyes darkened. “Not every rape is physical,” she said in a quiet voice. Then she was out the door.
I sat where I was for at least a full minute before I stood and slowly made my way to her chair. The report program was already on screen. All I had to do was input the date. There were three death reports from that day, but only one that was listed as an MVA—motor vehicle accident.
I printed it all out without reading it—reports, pictures, everything—then logged out of the computer, retrieved my printouts, and headed out.
Chapter 33
I ended up going back to the diner, simply because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go where I would have the room to spread out and look everything over. I felt a little silly as the waitress came up to me, but apparently it wasn’t the first time she’d seen a booth used as a temporary work desk. She merely poured me coffee and gave me a warm smile.
I sipped my coffee and started flipping quickly through the thick sheaf of papers. Right now there was only one thing I was really interested in.
Decedent—Herbert Singleton. White male, thirtyseven years old, lived in Longville. Only next of kin was an ex-wife who lived in Lafayette. There was a driver’s license picture, and I peered at it for close to a minute while more memories flashed into place. Yeah, this was the guy. I’d probably seen him at Pillar’s once or twice before. Not a local. Just someone who wanted a drink and a good time. Maybe too good a time.
So, Herbert, were you the one who made me like this? Were you a zombie? That he’d roofied me, I had no doubt. But he hadn’t counted on the fact that I already had a nice high rocking when he started buying me drinks and adding his special little touch of Rohypnol to them. The full effect must not have hit me until I was in his car. Maybe he realized I was overdosing and he panicked? Then why drive out to the middle of nowhere instead of a hospital?
Because, if he’d gone to the hospital, they’d have figured out that he was probably the one who’d roofied me. But if he made me a zombie, he could walk away from the whole thing. I was dying, so he did whatever zombies do and then dumped me on the side of the road.
I frowned. No, that didn’t hold water. I would have had to eat brains immediately, right? Okay, so he might have had his own stash. And then after dumping me he got into a wreck, or was hunted down by the zombie killer. . . .
My frown deepened. Nope. It still didn’t work. Someone had sent me the clothing and brain-drinks in the ER, and had arranged for the job at the morgue. Well, maybe there’s a big Protect New Zombies conspiracy going on?
I scrubbed a hand over my face. This was stupid. If this guy had been a zombie, why would he have gone to the trouble of making me one too simply because I was overdosing? It was far more likely that he’d taken me out to that remote highway to bash my head in and scoop out some nice fresh brains. Drug the white trash skank, take her out to the swamp, chow down.
And then what? The zombie killer had saved me?
I made a noise of frustration. None of this made sense. But I’d had it with being in the dark. I had the reports, and I was going to find the damn answer if it took me the rest of my undead life.
Well armed with coffee and workspace, I spread the pages of the death report out and began my search for any possible clues that could help me figure out what the hell had happened. On a separate piece of paper, I made notes of anything that might help things make sense. According to the state police accident report it appeared that dear old Herbert lost control of the vehicle on a curve and went off the road, at which time the car flipped once and hit a tree. The driver had been ejected and decapitated, and fragments of the skull had been found on the highway. Toxicology reports showed that Herbert’s blood alcohol was .06—technically not over the legal limit, but probably enough to impair his reactions on that curve.
But no mention of a passenger.
“Working hard?”
I looked up to see Ed with a coffee cup in his hand and a smile on his face.
“Because if you are,” he continued, “I feel somehow obligated to interrupt you.”
I grinned. “Aw, you’re so thoughtful.” I pulled the papers closer to me in order to make some room on the table. “C’mon, interrupt away. I’m just trying to figure out some stuff that’s been bugging me. What are you up to?”
He sat and set his coffee cup down. “I’m waiting for Marianne so I can give her the keys to my apartment, then I’m going to pick up Marcus, and we’ll be on our way for our annual fruitless attempt to murder Bambi’s parents.”
I laughed. “Male bonding at its best.”
“Testosterone heaven,” he added, grinning. “As well as a nifty excuse to play with ATVs.” He nodded toward the window. I followed his gaze to see a pickup with two four-wheelers strapped onto a platform across the back.
“So, what am I interrupting here?” Ed asked, peering down at the papers spread across the table. “Ew. Looks like work stuff.” He made a face.
“Well, it’s actually a sorta weird personal thing, to be honest.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m totally into weird personal things. Is it dirty as well?”
I laughed. “You wish!” I shook my head. “Actually, this accident happened the same night that you . . .” I sighed and screwed my face into a grimace, “saved me from killing myself from an overdose.”
