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“What do you mean dealt with?”
“It’s outside awaiting collection. I’ve got a guy on his way here to dispose of it.”
“You’ve got a guy? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“You coming out or what?” He walks back through and I follow him.
There’s a trail of blood that leads from the spot where Sandra died to the front door. “I can’t think with that there,” I tell him. “You might be able to act like this is normal, but I’m not used to being around dead bodies. Or blood.”
“Go back in the bedroom and wait there.”
She looks like she might argue with me but then she goes, closing the door behind her. I get to work cleaning up. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to clean up after a murder. Not a skill you forget, luckily for me.
It takes me ten minutes to get rid of the worst of it. CSI would make short work of the scene but it’ll do for my purposes. I use kitchen paper and washcloths to get up the worst of the blood and then it’s only a matter of wiping the excess cleaning fluid off the floor.
All that’s visible now is a light stain on the wood, which could be where a glass of wine was spilled. That’s all.
I wash my hands. Twice. Then I go and open the bedroom door. “You can come out now,” I tell her.
She looks past my shoulder into the room, like she thinks I might be lying. The relief is visible on her face when she sees the state of the lounge.
She walks past me, avoiding the spot where it happened, sitting on the furthest chair, turning it to face the window even though the blinds are down.
I bring another chair over, putting it facing hers as best I can. “You see my car out there?” I tell her.
“The Ford or the dust sheet?”
“The Ford’s Imelda’s. Mine’s under the sheet.”
“Oh.”
“You want to know what it is.”
“Not really.”
“A
It’s a ‘69 Chevy Camaro.”
“Should that mean anything to me?”
“It was my foster dad’s. The first car I drove. Bright red. All black interior, five-liter 302 V8 engine. Worth two hundred thousand in good condition today.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because my story starts with why that car’s under that dust sheet.”
She doesn’t say anything but she at least looks at me for the first time since she came out of the bedroom.
I continue. “That car came up here the day after I killed someone for the first time. The cabin was empty back then. Our grandparents had bought it for us but when our parents died, it kind of got forgotten about. Until Imelda moved back in.”
She still says nothing. Her eyes are getting wider.
“Only me and my sister know what happened,” I continue. “That’s why I knew it would be safe here. I never could bring myself to fix it up or to get rid of it so it stayed up here, safe on her drive, all these years.”
I’m not looking at her anymore. I’m looking at the wall in front of me but I’m seeing the road in front of the Camaro. Blacktop and white lines disappear under the car as I swerve deliberately toward him.
If I close my eyes, I’ll hear the crunching smack as he hits the hood, his body rolling up into the windshield and cracking it like a spider’s web. The last moment before he hits, he sees me and he doesn’t look scared, he looks angry and shocked. It’s like he couldn’t believe I’d have the balls to finally take him on.
