Page 72 of Wicked Scandal

For the first time tonight, Wilder cracks a smile. “Yes, you are, baby. He can never touch you again.”

I roll down the window, feeling manic as I throw my hands out and scream, “Rot in hell, Troy Jenkins!”

I sink back in my seat, my adrenaline pumping. “So,” I quip. “Who do you think did it?”

Wilder lifts his brows with quick glances from the road to me. “You mean it wasn’t…?”

“Wasn’t who?”

“Nothing,” he deadpans.

“Wait a minute.” I shift in my seat, turning my body to face him. “Do you think it was me?” I bring my hands to my chest. When he looks at me, I get my answer. “I didn’t do it, Wilder. I swear. I’d tell you if I did.”

I’m actually surprised he thought I was capable of killing someone. I’ve definitely thought about it on more occasions than one. I’ve even gone as far as plotting the act in my head. But I don’t think I could ever bring myself to kill another human, no matter how much I thought they deserved it. Besides, if I did kill Troy, I wouldn’t have let him off so easily with a gunshot. There would have been many other wounds inflicted first.

“I believe you,” he says softly, but the look on his face says otherwise.

“Do you? Because I feel like you don’t.” I can see it in the way he holds himself. He isn’t looking me in the eye, not even really glancing my way. His grip around the wheel has tightened as if he doesn’t want to admit it out loud.

“I don’t know what to think right now. Everything happened so quickly and part of me wonders if maybe you’re just suppressing?—”

“I didn’t do it!” I shout. “Nothing is suppressed. It wasn’t me.” I think back just to make sure. After graduation I went to a park outside of town to clear my head. I was not about to walk into a beating from Troy. He needed time to cool down, and I needed time to reset. I was planning on going home and grabbing the money I stashed in order to leave him. I was going to pack my bags and walk out, consequences be damned.

I stayed at the park, watching the minutes tick by and the sun begin to set. I even sent Wilder messages to tell him I was okay and where I was at. I know I didn’t go home and shoot Troy. I didn’t have time.

Wilder looks at me, his grip on the steering wheel loosening. “It had to be suicide then.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Not a chance in hell. Troy would never take his own life. He loves himself too much to do that. Someone killed him, but that someone wasn’t me.” I need Wilder to believe me.

“Okay.” He nods. “I’m sorry, baby. My head is just spinning with so many different scenarios and none of them make sense to me.” He shakes his head, eyes still on the empty road ahead.

I don’t ask if it was him—or Rome—because I trust Wilder. I know he would have told me by now if he had anything to do with it. And I’m not angry that he asked if I did it because I definitely had the motive and means. Nonetheless, someone got to him before I had.

I stretch my hand over and put it on his lap, and he covers it with his. “We’re going to figure this all out. Neither of us did anything wrong. In fact, we can probably go back and just tell our sides of the story so we don't even have to run.” I try to calm him and give him the chance to go home. I can’t tell if he is sad to leave or not.

“Not yet,” he says. “We’re both going to be suspects in this and I’d prefer the police figure it all out before we’re cuffed and thrown in a cell.”

He’s got a point. We’re both probably suspects right now, along with his dad.

A thought crosses my mind, but I quickly squash it. Grant Cromwell would never. Would he?

I lay my head back, willing it to stop thinking so much. The winding road we’re on seems to stretch for miles. A couple hours later, a small town comes into view. There are only a handful of buildings, one being a run-down gas station.

“Are you hungry?” Wilder asks, and I immediately nod. “Let’s stop here.” He nods toward the gas station. “I need to gas up anyway. Hopefully we’ll find a city soon because I need to buy a prepaid cell phone. I’m itching to know what’s going on back home.”

“Maybe we could ask the gas station attendant. I’m sure they could point us in the right direction.” Whatever the right direction might be.

Wilder pulls up to the pump and shuts off the car. We go inside together, and Wilder withdraws cash from the ATM. He says we need to keep driving because if the cops really want to find him, they can track his card usage. The attendant tells us there is a city about an hour north, so after we get gas, snacks, and drinks, we head in that direction.

“Got it,” Wilder says as he sinks into the driver’s seat. He closes the door and hands me a cellphone. “Got it all activated inside. Even sent Rome a text already.”

I open up the message log and read what he sent, but it’s just the word “update” with a question mark.

“How will he know it’s you?” I ask him.

Wilder shifts into reverse and pulls out of the parking space. “He’ll know.”

A few minutes down the road, a message comes through.

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