The Easy Way Out

17

In the bedroom lit only by the blush of dim streetlights, Rachel struggled out of the skin-tight striped shirt like a snake shedding its skin. She tossed it on the floor, undid her bra, then pulled an oversized T-shirt over her head before slipping under the bed covers.

Blake plodded in, pale and shaky.

"Come lay with me," she said gently.

He got into bed beside her, she cuddled close.

"We got any sleeping pills?" he asked.

"Just lay still for a few minutes."

"I can't."

"Come on. Hold me."

He rolled away, got out of bed, then trudged out of the room.

"Babe. Come back to bed."

He didn't answer.

"Babe?"

She threw back the covers then started down the hallway. Her breath caught in her throat when she peered into the bathroom. Blake's hoodie, gloves, and ski mask lay discarded in the bathtub. Blood spattered the floor of the tub.

With alarm rising in her, she found Blake at the kitchen table throwing back a shot of whiskey.

Quietly, and in a steady voice she asked, "Why do your gloves have blood on them?"

He poured another shot and slung the whiskey into his mouth.

"Blake? Answer me."

"I could've killed him."

"Killed who?"

"McQuaid." He gripped the bottle by the neck and took a long drink.

"You said he'd be at the diner."

"I was trapped in his office. He said the cops were coming."

"He saw you?!"

"I was wearing a ski mask. It was dark. He didn't see anything. When he came through the door, I just lost it." He sucked in a long breath. "I had the hammer in my hand... and... " He leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes clenched.

Rachel grabbed a garbage bag and dashed out of the room.

In the bathroom, she stuffed Blake's clothes into the bag. She spilled a puddle of bleach into the tub, vigorously working a scrub brush against the bathtub's interior.

Blake entered, wincing at the strong odor of bleach.

"There's disinfectant wipes under the sink." She pointed.

Alcohol and shock rendered him motionless.

"Blake. Wipe the sink," she said, urgency raising her voice. "The faucets. Doorknobs. Anything you touched." Rachel's panic was contagious. "And stop drinking. We have enough to clean up."

Twenty minutes later, in a desolate field, Rachel emptied the garbage bag, dumping Blake's clothes onto a patch of dirt. Blake doused the clothes with lighter fluid then tossed a match. As they watched the fire burn, she asked, "Is there anything else you're not telling me? Think. Anything that could connect us?"

He shook his head "no."

"Think super hard." She squinted into the shadows, unable to shake the sensation of being surveilled.

"He had a gun," he mumbled.

"What?"

"He shot at me." He slurred his words. "But I don't think he hit... your car."