Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Wyatt had to tell another lie at the pharmacy.
He jogged inside like he was in a rush, leaned on the counter, asked about a refill that didn’t exist. Came out with a small paper bag of random junk—gum, mints, a bottle of water—shoved deep into his jacket pocket.
If Sam had looked, he would’ve seen there was no prescription slip, no label.
Luckily, Sam didn’t look.
Back in the Tahoe, Sam eased them out of the lot. “They get your mom squared away?”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “She’s good.”
Sam nodded once, then flicked him a sideways glance. “What’s wrong with the Charger, anyway?”
Wyatt’s shoulders tightened. Besides a body in the trunk? “Just a timing issue.”
“What’s it doing?”
“Rough idle. Worse on cold start. Little hiccup when I hit the gas.” The words came automatically, the way they did when he talked cars, even with his brain screaming about the trunk. “I already swapped the plugs and coils. Still got the same skip. Points to timing.”
“You need help fixing it?”
“No.” He unclenched his jaw and made himself sound calm. “I’ve got the belt kit in the garage. Couple hours and it’ll be fine. I just didn’t have time this morning before you called.”
The drive settled into quiet.
Too quiet.
Wyatt kept his hands locked on his thighs, fingers digging into denim. His thoughts moved too fast, too loud. He barely registered the trees flashing past, the bends in the road. Normally he could’ve mapped this route in his sleep. Today he had to fight just to stay present.
He should have told Sam no this morning. Should’ve made up an excuse. But when the call came in, his mind had still been stuck on the impossible, and he hadn’t been thinking straight.
Now, he had no choice but to deal with it.
Sam turned onto the dirt road to Wyatt’s place. Gravel popped under the tires. “Text me when you get to your mom’s,” he said. “If your car craps out again, I’ll come haul you in.”
“Yeah.” Wyatt’s voice came out thin. “Thanks.”
The second they pulled into his driveway, a pulse of tension moved through him. If Sam insisted on looking at the car…
His house sat quiet, unchanged. The dirt road leading up to it was still undisturbed. No new tire tracks. No fresh footprints. No movement in the trees.
It looked exactly the way he left it.
Sam shifted into park but didn’t kill the engine. His gaze flicked toward the Charger sitting by the edge of the drive. “You absolutely sure you don’t want me to run you on to your mom’s I can pick you up later.”
“I’m sure,” Wyatt said. “I’ll fix it up and head over.”
Sam studied him a second longer. “Alright. Family first.”
Wyatt managed a nod. “Thanks.”
He popped the door and stepped out of the Tahoe, gravel crunching under his boots. Cool air hit his face. Sam backed down the drive, then disappeared between the trees, the sound of the engine fading until the woods swallowed it.
Silence rushed in.
Wyatt stood there for a moment, gripping nothing, running through his options.
What the hell was he supposed to do with a body?
Burning it was out. Took too long. Too many ways for it to go wrong.
Dumping it in the water? No. He had no way of knowing if it would stay down.
That left burial.
His house was remote, tucked into the woods. He knew every inch of this land, knew where the ground was soft enough, where no one would ever look.
But he also knew better than to believe this was just about getting rid of a body.
The bigger problem was who put it there—and why.
His stomach twisted.
His father.
It was the only explanation that made sense.
Wyatt clenched his jaw, pressing his thumb against the inside of his wrist—a nervous habit he’d never been able to shake. His fingers brushed over the ink there, the tattoo he always made sure to keep covered.
A mark from a life he’d spent years trying to erase.
His father was the kind of man who didn’t make mistakes. Didn’t forget. Didn’t forgive.
Wyatt and his mother had gone into witness protection to escape him.
But if his father had found him now—if he’d put that body in Wyatt’s trunk—then this wasn’t just a warning.
It was a message.
And Wyatt had no idea what it meant.
A sharp exhale left him as he forced himself to move.
He made his way toward his car. His pulse kicked up, but he ignored it.
This was just another problem. Just something he had to deal with.
He reached into his pocket for the keys.
He wasn’t going to panic. Not yet.
First, he had to get rid of the body.
The key slid into the trunk lock. His grip was tight, fingers stiff.
He hesitated for only a second. Then he turned it.
The latch popped with a quiet click.
Wyatt lifted the trunk.
And froze.
It was empty.
No body. No blood.
Nothing.
His breath stalled in his throat.
His hands went rigid on the edge of the trunk, the world narrowing to the impossible sight in front of him.
No.
No, that wasn’t right.
He took a step closer, his mind scrambling. He ran his fingers along the lining, checking the edges, the corners, even lifted the spare tire compartment.
Nothing.
Like it had never been there at all.
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
He knew what he saw.
The body had been here.
But now?
Now, it was gone.
Wyatt inhaled sharply, trying to steady himself, but his pulse was a roaring drum in his ears.
Someone had been here.
Someone had moved it.
But who?
And more importantly—why?
His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
This wasn’t just a warning anymore.
This was a game.
And someone had just made their first move.