Page 8 of Winning Bid

They share a look before standing. Detective Banks passes me his card. “If you remember anything else, please give us a call.”

I nod and smile. “I’d be happy to. Can’t have some crazy person going around attacking cute guys in the city.”

5

JUNE

As soon as the door shuts, the strength I pulled out of my ass vanishes, and I collapse to the floor. I’m not even sure where the hell that all came from. I was just … panicked. Bone-deep anxiety took over and handled the situation. But now, there’s nothing holding me together. Like a puppet with my strings cut, I’m a lump of a thing now. Hot tears sting my eyes. Stress tears. Fear tears. Whatever they are, they burn like acid.

The acid Moss should have used on Neil’s body.

I snort a laugh and keep crying, and I’m pretty sure I’m losing my mind. I am not cut out for a life of crime. That’s why I’ve always kept my nose clean. Hell, even my career is based around people finding the most legal way to flout taxes. I skirt the law. I don’t break it. Until now.

Now, I am a criminal who can’t stop crying. I won’t make it a day in the joint.

It’s not even cute, girly tears. There’s nothing pretty about this. Murder has ruined me. I’m on my office floor, wracked with sobs. This is a hopeless situation, and I feel like the world is ending. My chest hurts from every breath because my whole body is rigid with fear. I don’t know how to stop crying.

What if they catch Anderson? That’s the thing I’m most afraid of. I mean, I know for sure that I won’t do well in prison. I have nice tits and a decent body, and I’m plain but pretty. I might as well change my name to “Victim” because that’s what I’d be in prison. But the thought of Anderson behind bars haunts me. That’s the thought that makes me want to vomit and scream right down to my very soul. He can’t go to prison for this, for saving my life. It’s too cruel. Life is not supposed to be this way.

I won’t let that happen. If it comes down to it, I’ll confess. Say I did it all. I’ll take whatever is coming. But I won’t let him go to prison. I won’t.

And he’s probably thinking the same thing about me right now.

Maybe if I confess first and beat him to it, then I can keep him safe. That way, he can’t try to shoulder any blame. That could work—but are they going to believe that I beat the shit out of Neil? Me, who has no training? Me, who can hardly lift a keg, somehow beat him to death, transported his body to a boat, and lifted his weighted body over the side? No one in their right mind would believe that.

I knew I should have called the fucking cops that night.

We should have taken our chances with the law. At least then we wouldn’t be in this position. We’d be on the right side of history. That night, in our panic, Anderson pointed out his father has enemies who would love to punish him by convicting his son. Also, anytime I was googled, the story about Neil would come up. I’d be tied to the man who tried to rape me for the rest of my life. Both scenarios sounded like utter hell after what I’d been through, and I couldn’t accept that future.

But this one is so much worse.

An alarm jolts me from my doom spiral. I race to my phone, wiping my eyes as I go. Shit. I have to get ready for lunch with my father. It’s so peculiar that he’s popped up now of all times. Doesn’t matter why at the moment. I have to get myself together.

Bringing out my desk mirror, I catch my reflection and cringe in horror. My eyes are red with black and pink bags beneath them. Thanks, so-called waterproof mascara. My cheeks are splotchy, too, and streaked in black. Hell, even my lips are swollen from nervously chewing on them.

The fear of my father noticing my emotional state is what allows me to stop crying. After all, he used to be the reason I cried so much as a kid.

But those times are far in the past. When Dad came last time, it was actually pleasant to have lunch with him. The man is a con artist, so I might be naïve in thinking this, but he actually seems different now. More secure. Not like a normal person is stable, but stable for him. Maybe prison did him some good.

I doubt we have that in common.

Stop thinking about your impending prison sentence, and get ready.

I shake my head free of the thought and grab the makeup remover wipes and blotting paper. After using all the removers, I’m left with a pink and puffy face. The impromptu makeover can only fix the makeup. Can’t do much for the eyes. I skip the makeup there, settling on sunglasses instead. Hopefully, no one will make a big deal out of my appearance. When I’m ready, I dial up an Uber for pickup.

I grab my things and rush out the door, ignoring Carlos’ beckoning. The elevator is mercifully fast, and the doors close before he’s able to catch up to me. I know he hates that I got the corner office, and so he likes to annoy me, but for heaven’s sake, I wish he would get a new hobby.

When I get to the lobby, my legs freeze in place. It is downpouring outside. Hoorah. So, I gear up in my galoshes and raincoat, both of which are not particularly warm, and when the Uber arrives, I launch out of the lobby for the warmth of the minivan. Dad has picked another high-end restaurant for our lunch—his treat—so I give the driver the address and try to relax.

Relaxation is not an option in any real sense of the word, but dissociating during the ride prevents me from freaking out on the driver’s crazy antics. It’s almost like relaxation, right?

Once at the restaurant, the driver pulls under the awning, so at least I’m semi-dry by the time I reach Dad’s table by the window. We have a nice view of the harbor, or we would if rain weren’t coming down in sheets out there.

My father, who I have been trying to stop calling Mitch because I am fostering a better relationship with him, looks good. His navy suit is tailored, he’s clean-shaven, and he’s smiling like he used to when times were easier. I can’t tell if he darkened the gray at his temples, but he looks refreshed and happy, and it’s disheartening to see our stark contrast.

I am falling apart while he is putting himself back together.

“Junebug!” he says by way of greeting. After a brief hug, we sit at the two-top. We order drinks, and I expect him to grill me about the sunglasses, but he doesn’t. “How are you doing?”

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