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It doesn’t look like the SUV hit its brakes. In fact, it looks an awful lot like it swerved, intentionally hitting him.
My mouth opens. For several seconds, I open my mouth like a trout out of water, gasping for air. My heart hammers inside my chest.
What the fuck did I just witness?
The SUV never slows down at all. In the moments after it hits the journalist, it speeds up, tires squealing as it disappears.
Ella suddenly appears by my side, her expression fearful. She clutches at my elbow. “Is… is he…?”
Gathering my wits about me, I notice a lamppost only a few feet away. I haul her over by her upper arm, pointing at her with all the intensity that I can manage.
“Stay here,” I command. “Do not move. Do not even think about running into the fucking street. I’ll be right back.”
Her eyes go wide but she nods, her throat working. I turn and sprint toward the journalist. As I get closer, I realize that his head looks wrong. It’s misshapen from hitting the road, held at the wrong angle for his body. There is a good bit of blood and gore on the ground behind his head, enough to convince me that he is gone with a capital G.
If I had any question before, I am now a hundred percent certain that he’s dead.
He is splayed out, his brown leather satchel still clutched in one lifeless hand. Before anybody else can snatch it, I pluck it away from his body, putting it on my shoulder. Everyone is looking at the journalist’s body right now so I feel pretty secure in just openly stealing his bag.
If anyone has a problem with it, I will just scowl at them and bark about how I’m a very rich man with no need to steal. It’s worked before and I know that I will use that song and dance again in the future.
“Is he okay?” A young man in a tweed jacket asks. He looks at me, like I’m the authority here. I’m used to radiating a sense thatI should be hereso I just shrug.
“He’s pretty clearly dead.”
There are several people pushing in now, trying to see what’s going on.
One older woman speaks up. “I called the police. Does he have a pulse?”
Grimacing, I make a show of trying to check for a pulse while not actually touching his rapidly cooling skin. I do, however, feel his pockets.
“Looking for identification!” I announce.
But really, I’m checking to make sure that there aren’t any flash drives hidden on his person that might contain information that I don’t want leaked. I just shut down the obtrusive thoughts about the fact that this journalist was probably just killed, much like I refuse to pay attention to the tense, quick drumbeat of my heart.
Not finding anything in his pockets except a set of keys, I stand up and back away. “He’s definitely dead.”
The woman that spoke before shakes her head. I shoulder the journalist’s bag and back away, turning my eyes to the street. It’s nearly empty, which is unusual for this part of the city at any time of day.
Sprinting back to the curb, I return to Ella. Ella looks pale and has pressed her hand against her mouth.
She looks at me, her eyes glistening as she holds back tears. “Did we have something to do with this?”
I grab her hand and tug her toward the street corner. “Come on. Not here.”
Soon enough, I spot my limo driver pulling up to the curb. Not waiting for him to get out, I open the back door myself and practically push Ella inside.
“Move over.”
She obeys without question, looking as though she is overwhelmed. I don’t blame her.
I am having a million thoughts and questions flying through my mind at this exact moment. But I’m trying to prioritize.
It’s hard, because I can’t stop remembering the sickening thud of the journalist’s head hitting the pavement.
“Driver?” I say the second I close the door. “Take us to the Teterboro Private Airport.”
Ella grips my hand. I look at her.
