All the excuses she reeled out for herself couldn’t quell the sick feeling in her stomach. She’d make this right, but she couldn’t leave her fate to strangers when she didn’t even know her own story.
Larry’s body emitted a tinny classical tune, and she dropped the money on the floor. She tiptoed toward him and crouched down, clutching the towel in her hand.
A light glowed from the front pocket of his shirt, and she plucked the phone out, using the hand towel. The cell slid off of his body and landed beside his arm.
Squinting, she leaned forward. The display flashed a call from an unknown number, and then went dark. Drug dealers and bank robbers probably didn’t store contact names and numbers of their associates in their phones.
Since she was hovering over the body anyway, she swiped at the man’s pockets where she’d touched him. She would wipe down the car, take her suitcase and hit the road—first stop Timberline, the name of the town on the slip of paper in her pocket. She was about to rise when a dinging sound stopped her.
The phone lit up again, but this time a text message flashed on the display.
She hunched forward and read the text aloud to the dead man. “‘Did you get the girl? Rocky’s...’”
In place of an adjective for Rocky’s emotion, the texter had inserted a little devil face with smoke coming out his ears. Rocky must be very, very angry.
Was she the girl who had to be gotten? Would’ve been nice if the texter had used her name to give her a head start on reclaiming her identity.
Cell phones could be tracked. She pushed to her feet and finished wiping down every possible surface in the room. When she was done, she tucked a corner of the towel in the waistband of her jeans and peeked out the door.
She’d leave the car here—those could be traced, too. She might be Hazel McTavish from Seattle, but she needed to do a little research before stepping into Hazel’s life.
But before she left without the car, she wanted to check the trunk first. She’d found a bag of money, a bag of drugs, what next? A bag of weapons?
Poking her head out the door, she cranked it from side to side. The people at this motel didn’t seem to be early risers—probably because they were sleeping off the night’s activities or had used the room for just a few hours.
She kept her head down and scurried to the compact, unlocking the trunk with the key fob. It sprang open and she used the towel to ease it up.
Chills raced up her spine and her mouth dropped open in a silent scream as her eyes locked on to the vacant stare of her second dead body this morning.
Copyright © 2016 by Carol Ericson
ISBN-13: 9781488005909
Scene of the Crime: Means and Motive
Copyright © 2016 by Carla Bracale
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