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My imagination is wildly running through all the possibilities of what’s going to happen next. Will he shoot me then dump my body into a swamp so the alligators will eat me? On television, they say that will get rid of everything incriminating. Still, there's not really any swampland near us, so that's probably not it. Maybe a pig farm? Pigs will eat anything. It only takes eight minutes for full-grown pigs to devour a two hundred pound man. Yikes. Why is my brain even holding this type of information? I've watched way too much true crime television.
"Stop fidgeting," E-Z says, looking over at me. "You're going to be okay."
"Will you stop playing with me, and just tell me how you're going to do it?" I ask. I’m trying to be brave, but my voice betrays how nervous I am. Maybe I don't want to know. Perhaps it's so diabolical, my mind will shatter with the possibility. He looks at me like I’m crazy—and we both know I’m not.
"How I'm going to do what?" he asks.
"Kill me," I answer flatly. There’s no point in beating around the bush. He starts shaking his head in disbelief. I begin to breathe heavily as my heart starts to pick up its pace. The scent of fresh leather assaults my nose. They must use new cars every time they go somewhere to ensure no one will trace it.
"I don't kill women," E-Z responds, looking offended.
"Great. So, you're going to have someone do it then? Farm me out?" I shake my head. He won't get his hands dirty, I guess.
"Farm?" he asks skeptically, "Do you even get what that means?" He quirks a thick, manicured eyebrow. I notice they aren't overly done but definitely manscaped.
"I picked it up from watching Dateline reruns." I shrug. Maybe I used the term wrong. "I'm addicted to that show, although now, I'm regretting that. I have a huge crush on that older guy."
"That guy is old enough to be your grandfather," he says, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
"Don't judge me. I'll never meet the guy, so his age doesn't really matter. If I did, I'm pretty sure I'd still love him. Age is just a number.” I'm rambling and I know it, but I just can’t seem to stop.
"I'm judging. You may not care about age, but you’d want someone in your bed with old man balls?" He asks, still looking disgusted.
"That isn't a topic I'm willing to discuss," I say, my cheeks warming with my blush. Old man balls…really?
"If your face gets any redder, you're likely to catch on fire," he laughs.
I glance out the window as the SUV slows down to see we are going through the prison's gate. It feels ominous, sending chills down my arms.
"Where are we going?" I ask again. I've asked at least ten times with no answer. This time he looks over at me.
"You're going to meet with Killian," he says, his voice full of regret.
"Why?" I ask, looking at him. He turns his head to stare out the window, ignoring my question. Nothing is making sense. "Is Killian going to kill me? Is that what this is about? That's why I'm here, right?" Now he just looks annoyed with me and my incessant questions.
"He can hardly kill you in prison when he's shackled up ninety percent of the time."
"What? They chain him up?"
"He's admitted to shooting a man and killing him, Belle. They shackle men who do that shit." He looks at me like I'm daft.
"He didn't shoot that man, so why did he confess? My father did. Right?"
"Your father isn't around to confess," he responds. His tone tells me that I shouldn't ask, but I do anyway.
“Yeah, there’s a reason I don’t hear from him anymore isn’t there, E-Z?”
"Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to, Belle." I know he's purposely evading the direct question, but his stare has already given me my answer.
I wait for something to come over me. It's my father, and I'm sad, but if I'm honest with myself, there's not much else to feel. He wasn't a nice guy. I touch my face absentmindedly, remembering our last interaction in person. He was my father, but just barely. The SUV comes to a stop as I shake off my thoughts.
"Leave your stuff in the car," E-Z says, about to step out.
"I never leave my purse in a car. Someone could take it."
"In a prison parking lot?" he asks skeptically. “It will take twenty minutes for security to search through it. Leave it.” I don't really want to, but E-Z is ordering me so sternly it’s a little scary. He’s usually kind of laid back. I’m sort of afraid to keep arguing. I don't want to rock the boat; I already feel like I’m treading on thin ice.
