44
Ted
Andy leaned his head out the open passenger-side window of the Civic like a dog, practically salivating. Then he lowered his binoculars—same ones we ’ d used earlier in the day—and pointed at the dark, narrow deer trail that intersected with Bull Creek. “ Dude she ’ s gone, let ’ s go,” he hissed impatiently for the third time.
His hair, which hadn ’ t been combed in the last twenty-four hours—maybe longer—looked wilder than I ’ d ever seen it, framing his jowls. He was definitely still beer-drunk.
“ She really drove away already? You ’ re sure? ” I asked, reaching for the key to cut the idling engine.
He pulled his head in the window and shoved the binoculars onto my lap. “ I ’ m buzzed, not a fuckup. Yeah, bro, she ’ s gone .”
“ And she didn ’ t seem like she saw us?” I demanded.
“ It ’ s getting dark. She didn ’ t see shit,” he insisted flatly, holding up his hand Scout ’ s honor.
My heart thumped as I pulled the keys out of the ignition, got out of the car, and followed him down the scrubby trail that led to the far end of the campground, where the real trailheads and campsites were located. This side of Little Eddy was all vault toilets and overgrown campsites, with a CLOSED sign and a chain across the path.
“ The backpack looked sort of small,” Andy grumbled. “ Bitch better have brought all the cash.”
“ Shh, ” I hissed. There wasn ’ t anybody nearby. All the updated campsites were a quarter of a mile away, near the main dirt road. Anybody out for an evening hike would probably be headed for one of the marked trails—like Bull Creek. But sound carried in the quiet, and there was no sense being stupid.
“ I ’ m sure it ’ s all there,” I whispered, not wanting to sour Andy ’ s mood again. “ She wants her kids back.”
Saying it felt like a brick dropped into the pit of my stomach.
We still hadn ’ t settled on what to do with the kids and the bus driver—even though we ’ d argued about it the whole drive.
Andy still wanted to “ Take care of them,” as he put it in his slurred voice.
I didn ’ t know what to think anymore. Not since I ’ d learned those kids might ’ ve seen Andy ’ s face. And the quarry.
Sure, there was no way any of them could know who Andy was. However, if the bus driver or any of the kids could point the cops to the quarry—and Andy— I was screwed. Everybody knew that me and Andy were thick as thieves. If they caught him, they caught me.
For shit ’ s sake.
I pushed the thoughts away and told myself we ’ d pick up the money, then figure things out, somehow. At that point, our plan—except for the trick of disappearing with the ransom—would be complete.
There weren ’ t any cars around as we approached the Bull Creek trailhead on foot. No people, either. Just the dark, settling deep into the tall pine trees.
“ Look,” Andy hissed, crashing through the brush. A startled bird made a chee sound and flew in the opposite direction of our feet.
I stood and stared as Andy bent down, muttering something I couldn ’ t hear.
A dog barked somewhere from the direction of the campsites, and I cringed but forced myself not to look around like I was doing something sketchy.
Even though you fucking are, said a voice in my head that sounded like Mom.
I pushed it away. Like she had any room to give me advice on morals.
Andy had the black backpack in his hands. To my relief, he didn ’ t open it. Just slung it over his shoulders like we ’ d talked about and made a beeline back to the spot where we ’ d left the Civic. He wasn ’ t exactly walking in a straight line, but he wasn ’ t falling over either, and that was good enough for now.
“ It ’ s heavy,” he huffed, shuffling so fast I almost had to jog to keep up. “ That ’ s good, right?”
I didn ’ t reply. Not until we got back into the car and locked the doors.
The second we were inside the vehicle, Andy had the zipper down and was staring into the backpack with an expression on his face I ’ d never seen.
Adoration, maybe. And a little confusion.
He reached into the bag and picked up something gold-colored. There was a piece of paper folded around it, and it made a soft, metallic clinking sound.
I wrinkled my nose. It was a wristwatch—with a broken clasp.
Andy opened the paper, read it, then shoved it toward me with a laugh.
“ Dumb bitch. How are we supposed to split a watch, even if it’s worth twelve thousand? And cash won ’ t be even now,” Andy complained, but he was laughing. “ You think it ’ s real?” he asked, bringing the watch close to his face. “ It feels heavy. It ’ s probably real, right? She wouldn ’ t fuck with us like that, would she—”
I forced out a real-sounding laugh. “ You take it.”
Andy wrapped his fingers tighter around the watch and studied me. “ Why would you do that?”
“ Just let me finish,” I said, thinking faster. “ We split the cash even, and you get to take the Rolex.” Then I added, “ I get to decide what happens to the kids.”
He frowned, and the wrinkles between his eyebrows deepened into dark elevens. “ I ’ m not getting caught just because you don ’ t have the balls to do what we gotta do. A fuckin’ Rolex isn ’ t gonna do me any good in prison.”
I shook my head firmly. “ No shit. You think I want to get caught? I ’ m not saying I won ’ t do it if we have to … I just want a chance to think. We ’ ve got time. Tomorrow is Sunday. A whole day, while the quarry ’ s still closed for the weekend.”
Andy sat back in the passenger seat and shook his head but didn ’ t respond.
I started up the car. “ Do we have a deal? You keep the Rolex—and stop talking about killing kids until I think this through?” I hesitated then said, “I’ll come up with an even better plan.”
This made him smile—a big, crooked, toothy thing that made my skin crawl. He slipped the Rolex into the front pocket of his jeans. “ Well, when you put it like that …”