Chapter 6
Jack
“WHAT?” NORA CRIES, squeezing past me to see for herself. She peeks her head in the car then whips it back out. “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh,” she whimpers. “He is gone! How can he be gone? Dead bodies don’t just get up and walk away!”
She’s not wrong about that.
“Somebody must’ve moved him,” I reply, doing my level best not to give away how bad this is. But Nora isn’t stupid, she gets there all on her own.
“Moved him? Someone moved him? Somebody broke into your garage and moved him! Crap, this is so bad! This is so, so bad!” She starts pacing across my garage, her ponytail whipping violently around behind her. “That means someone knows he’s dead. Maybe even knows I killed him! Oh my gosh. I killed someone!” Abruptly she whirls around to face me and the anguish on her face is like a punch to my stomach. “I keep trying to forget that it happened, but I can’t. I’m a murderer, Jack! How am I ever going to recover from that?” Her voice cracks and tears start to trail down her cheeks.
I don't think about what I do next; it just happens. I walk over to her and pull her into my arms, letting her sob into my shoulder.
There are things we should be doing right now. Trying to figure out who the heck took Ian’s body, wiping Nora’s prints off his steering wheel and keys, getting his freaking car out of my dang garage.
But instead I hold Nora, letting precious seconds of time dwindle away.
Eventually she stops crying, her body slumping against mine in defeat.
“Nora,” I say softly, “I know that this is hard. You’ve been through something unimaginably horrible. But as someone who deals with murder on a daily basis, the only thing I can recommend to you right now is that you try and compartmentalize. At some point you’ll need to process the ordeal you’ve been through, but right now–if we’re going to get you out of this mess–you have to find a way to put what happened with Ian into a separate mental box. That way we can focus on what needs to be done. I know that sounds callous and insensitive, but, Nora, if we want to keep you out of prison, it’s imperative that we get ahead of the police on this investigation.”
Nora nods. Her face, always so animated and expressive, goes blank before my eyes, stripping itself bare of her emotional turmoil.
“Okay.” She takes a shuddery breath. “So what do we do now?”
She’s looking up at me with such complete trust, as if she fully expects me to have a plan to get her out of this.
Too bad I don’t.
At least not one she’s going to like.
I’ll just have to ease her into it.
“Well, we still need to get this car back to Ian’s place. We can’t just leave it here to be found.” “Why not put it somewhere random?” she asks. “Like a grocery store parking lot? Or the side of the road?”
“We don’t know where his body ended up,” I explain. “The way I see it, whoever took it is going to do one of two things.” I count off one finger. “They might hide it, in which case it would be better for his car to be at home rather than somewhere it can be found abandoned. If they don’t find his body, we may be able to hide that a murder happened for a few days, but if the police find his abandoned car in addition to Ian missing, they’ll be more convinced of foul play.”
“Okay, sure. That makes sense.” Nora nods. “But what’s the other thing whoever took the body might do?”
“Well,” I sigh, trying to say this next bit in the least alarming way, “I guess there’s a chance they might know you did it—”
“What? You think someone knows I killed Ian?” she interjects in a panic.
“I don’t know,” I say quickly, “but it’s certainly a possibility. And if they do, they may have taken the body to try to out you—in which case it’s still better for the car to be at Ian’s because Frank and Kenny both know Ian drove you home. The less connection his car has to his murder, the better.”
“That makes sense,” Nora agrees softly, still looking understandably disturbed at the thought of someone knowing she killed Ian.
“I still want to clean up the blood and take prints before we go, though,” I continue, hoping to distract her. “There’s a chance whoever did this was an amateur and didn’t wear gloves.” Regretfully I release my hold on her and head over to the passenger door. “Of course your prints will likely be mixed in there too, but it’s worth a try. Let me get some supplies.”
We spend the next thirty minutes cleaning the car and working together to lift prints off the garage door, the car’s door handle and a few spots on the passenger seat where it seems likely someone removing a body might have had to grip or touch. Luckily–or not, depending on how you look at it–most of Ian’s blood ended up on Nora’s clothing, and we’re able to get the rest off the car with a sponge and some hydrogen peroxide. Once we’re done I place the evidence gathered on a table in my basement then we head back out to drive to Ian’s house, Nora leading the way in my car.
I thought that being in two cars would provide some much needed separation and space to clear my head; but instead, driving in Ian’s car has my mind on the things that took place in it just a few short hours ago. Rage brews in my chest coupled with a feeling of helplessness that I wasn’t there to stop it from happening.
Ironically the urge to stab something is overwhelming.
Not to be depressing, but one thing I’ve learned over the years is that most of us have the capability to murder somewhere inside of us. It’s just a question of whether or not we ever get pushed to our breaking point.
Sure jealousy, money, and passion may not be enough of a motive for most of us, but put us in a scenario where either we or our loved ones are in danger and I think many of us would find ourselves in the same situation as Nora.
But you wouldn’t be going to these extremes to help anyone besides Nora, a small voice whispers from inside me. Wouldn’t be thinking about legal loopholes to get yourself out of testifying against her…
My phone starts ringing, and I see Nora’s name on the screen.
“Almost there?” I ask when I pick up.
“Uh, yeah,” she replies, sounding worried. “But I just remembered that Ian lives in a gated community. We’ll have to be buzzed in.”
I bite back a curse. That’s not good news. The fewer people who see us with Ian’s car, the better.
“I’m sorry,” she goes on. “I should’ve thought of it sooner. Such a stupid mistake.”
“No, it’s fine,” I lie. “Glad you remembered before we got there.” I think fast, trying to come up with a way out of this. “Hopefully, the guard will recognize Ian’s car and buzz us in without question.”
“And if not?” The question hangs between us.
“If not,” I say, “we’ll have to tell him an edited version of the truth.”
“The truth,” she repeats in disbelief. “We’re going to tell a security guard I killed one of the residents in his community, then ask him to kindly let us in so we can return the dead guy’s car?”
“I said an edited version of the truth,” I reply. “We’ll tell him Ian loaned you his car because yours got a flat tire and now you’re returning it.”
Nora is silent for a beat, processing. “He’ll probably ask for our names,” she finally says. “We had to provide them for the party. He had a list of approved guests. He may not let us in without us being on Ian’s list.”
“Okay. That’s not great.”
“We could pretend to be Uber eats,” she suggests, “here with a food order. Nobody ever questions people bringing in food.”
It’s my turn to process what she’s said.
“Okay,” I agree. “But we’ll need to grab some food then. And maybe I should go in alone. It doesn’t make sense to bring my car in too if we’re going with the delivery man story.”
“What? No,” she immediately protests. “You’re already doing too much to help me. I’ll get in the car and go in with you.”
“One of us needs to stay with my SUV to pick the other one up. Otherwise we’ll be hoofing it on foot for miles to the nearest parking lot.”
“Well, then maybe you should be the getaway driver,” she replies, her voice anxious. “At least I have a semi-plausible reason to be driving Ian’s car if the guard does recognize it.”
“If the guard recognizes Ian’s car, I'll tell him I’m your boyfriend, returning the car as a favor to you.”
“My b-boyfriend?” she stammers over the word.
“Don’t freak out. It’s just a cover,” I say. If she doesn’t like even this tiny lie, she certainly isn’t going to be onboard with the other part of my plan.
I’m not even fully sure I’m on board with it.
It’s a good way to protect her, sure, but at what expense?
My heart. That’s the dang expense.
“I wasn’t freaking out,” she replies quickly. “I just…I don’t know. I should never have come to you for help. I hate the position I’m putting you in.”
“It’s a little late to go back now,” I bite out, unreasonably annoyed with her regret. As always with Nora, it’s too little, too late, and I’m left looking like the sappy schmuck who would do anything for a woman who doesn’t love him enough to marry him.
There’s silence on her end, and I start to feel my own sense of regret at my harsh response, but I’m too wounded or prideful or some mixture of the two to apologize. So instead I simply finalize the plans.
“I’ll go in as a delivery driver, then call you when I need you to pick me up, okay?”
“Jack, I should be the one to go in,” she starts to protest again, but I end the call. I won’t negotiate on this.
Because like it or not, I am a sappy schmuck who would do anything for her.
We use my car to stop at a Chick-fil-A. After another round of protestations Nora finally hands over the food, and I drive the remaining distance to Ian’s gated community, Nora trailing a short distance behind me. When I reach the entrance I roll down my window and press the buzzer.
“Name?” The guard at the gate doesn’t even look up from his crossword puzzle book as he addresses me through the intercom. He’s a big guy who barely seems to fit in the booth. His heavy accent, blond hair, blue eyes, and name tag reading Sven suggest he’s of Nordic descent.
“Uber Eats delivery,” I tell him, infusing my voice with a mixture of confidence and boredom. His eyes flick up, and I drum my fingers along the steering wheel, bobbing my head like I’m really into the music playing on my radio. Carefree. That’s the image I’m going for.
“You got a name for the order?” The guard asks, blinding me with the flashlight on his phone.
Shoot. I think fast.
“I just got a house number,” I tell him, blinking away the brightness. “Guy used the app for the order and put his address in the name spot.” I shake my head and let out a single laugh. “Happens all the time.”
“Yeah, okay. What’s the address then?”
The address. Right.
“Spyglass Drive,” I come up with, remembering the street name Nora gave me.
“And the house number?” Sven asks a bit impatiently. Of course I get the Mr. By-the-Book guard who takes his job seriously.
“Oh right,” I laugh like I’m an idiot for not already saying it, “2783,” I hedge, sending up a prayer that the house numbers travel by twos here, since Ian’s address is 2785.
“Oh yeah. The Hendersons,” he says. “They get a lot of takeout. Go on through.”
Finally a lucky break.
He opens the gate for me and I drive through. With a bolt of inspiration I turn on the screen on Ian’s dashboard, gratified when I see he’s got his home address saved. After multiple touches of the screen (the gloves I’m wearing to cover up my fingerprints making things difficult) the map starts directing me to his house. Would it have been helpful to think of doing this before I had to make a guess about another address in the neighborhood? Yes. But I drive an old SUV that doesn’t even have bluetooth capabilities, let alone a touchscreen on the dashboard.
Ian’s house is completely dark when I pull into the driveway. I debate whether or not to open the garage and put it inside, but ultimately decide to leave it in the driveway since I’m not sure how I’d close the garage door behind myself. Plus, his wife may be asleep inside, and I don't want the noise to wake her.
I take a glance around before getting out of the car and heading down the street, doing my best to appear casual. I take my phone out and call Nora.
“Car is back in Ian’s driveway,” I say by way of greeting.
“Okay, great. I’m driving around behind the tennis courts. Do you think you can climb the fence to get to me?”
“Sure,” I say with more confidence than I feel. Yeah, I workout, but that doesn’t mean I have the agility to free climb up a wrought-iron gate. Let’s just hope Nora won’t stop the car to watch me attempt to get over in one piece.
“Great. They’re on the south side of the sub. See you soon.”
She clicks off and I pick up my pace, heading south. After about five minutes, I spot the tennis courts. While the courts themselves are enclosed by traditional chain link fencing, the area between the courts and the road sports the same wrought-iron fence at the front entrance. Great.
I study the fence for a few seconds, debating the merits of taking a running leap and hoping for the best.
I decide there are no merits to that plan and opt for a different strategy. Removing the hoodie I’m wearing, I form a loop with the sleeve, then head for the fence. My plan is to toss the sweatshirt up so that the loop lands around one of the fence rails, then use it to pull myself up. I miss completely on the first two tries, but the summers I spent on my grandparents’ ranch as a kid pay off big time on the third try, when I successfully lasso the rail with the loop I made on the end of my sleeve.
With a sigh of relief I grab hold of my sweatshirt and start to pull myself up, my feet slipping around on the iron rails. I’m praying the stitching holds on my sweatshirt so I don’t fall on my butt when I hear a noise behind me, then someone says, “Hey! Hey you there!”
Adrenaline surges through me and with an almighty grunt I pull myself the rest of the way to the top of the fence, then fling my body over it, sliding down the rails like they’re a pole on a playground.
“Hey!” the voice cries. “Hey you! Stop!”
I don’t look back, sprinting away from the fence at full speed. Two headlights shine at me, and I hold up an arm to shield my eyes.
“It’s me, get in!” Nora cries.
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I hop in the passenger seat, shouting, “Drive!”
The tires of my SUV squeal across the road as she floors it. There’s no one pursuing us now, and yet she continues to drive as if we’re being followed, the speedometer inching from 45 to 50 to 55 to 60.
“Nora,” I finally say, my heart having slowed back down to a more normal pace, “slow down. The last thing we need is to get pulled over for speeding.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even seem to hear me.
“Nora,” I repeat her name. Nothing. “Nora!” This time I raise my voice, so that I’m almost shouting. Finally she turns to me, eyes wide. “Slow down!” I cry. It’s as if I’ve pulled her from a trance, with a nod she does as instructed, pressing her foot down on the brake so hard we both fall forward.
The tires squeal a second time, then we pull to an abrupt halt. I look over to see Nora breathing hard, her cheeks flushed.
“I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “I don’t know what happened. You just got in so fast and you shouted drive! And I don’t know…I thought, this is it–the police are coming for me. I’m going to spend the rest of my life behind bars.” Her shoulders start to shake with sobs and her head falls forward onto my steering wheel.
I should be practical right now.
I should be emotionally detached from this woman.
I should tell her to suck it up because the sooner we get back to my house the better.
What I shouldn’t do is reach over and pull her into my arms, holding her until her sobs quiet.
Yeah, I really shouldn’t do that.
I was already weak once tonight.
This time I’ll be strong.
But I must be a glutton for punishment because reaching out to her is exactly what I do. Holding her in my arms again after so many years, all the while knowing she’s still not mine, is the sweetest torture.
Like a complete sap, I don’t want our embrace to end, but end it does, her sobs quieting to soft sniffles, then stopping entirely. She doesn’t immediately pull away, though. Instead there’s a few beats where we just hold each other, then abruptly she pushes away from me, patting my bare arms.
“Jack!” she exclaims in dismay. “What happened to your hoodie?”
My heart sinks to the floorboard as I realize I left my hoodie dangling from the fence.