Page 19 of The (Maybe) Murderer Who Knocked Me Up

I dash into the customer service area and out the front door. An old red truck is parked on the far right side. I run for it, almost scraping the paint with the key as I fumble to slide it inside the lock. The cabin of the truck is meticulously clean and has that new car smell. I scramble inside and pull out my phone to put the address Jake gave me into the GPS.

It’s closer than I thought. Only ten minutes away.

Driving Tim’s truck is an adjustment after Georgina’s old Buick. I do my best to be careful, but Jake’s ragged breaths haunt me every mile. I drive faster than I should. I even run a stop sign because I don’t see it until it’s too late.

I arrive at the address in exactly seven minutes.

It’s in the warehouse district, which is nothing but a bunch of big square buildings and empty parking lots this time of night. The sun has already begun to set, so I can barely see the numbers on the side of the aluminum siding. I jump out of the truck and run for the door. It’s unlocked and swings open without a fuss. No one is in the reception area. The lights are off and an eerie silence permeates the air.

Where is Jake?

I consider calling him, but I’m not sure if he’s hiding or if he’d be able to respond. I text him instead.

I’m here. Where do I go?

No response. I wander around the corner. There’s a corridor of doors. I start opening them and flipping on lights. They’re just empty offices. Jake is nowhere to be seen. At the end of the hallway is a larger door made of metal. I open it to find the warehouse with boxes of toilet paper stacked toward the sky. Aforklift is parked next to the entrance. In the distance, I hear quiet sobs.

“Jake?!” I call out.

The sobbing stops. “Go away.” His voice is clear and strong this time.

I follow the sound of his voice through a long hallway of toilet paper. I pull out my phone to use the flashlight, but I still can’t see Jake.

“Where are you?”

I turn and find my brother sitting in a pool of blood. A large man lies next to him, a knife sticking out of his back. His eyes stare straight ahead, unblinking.

“What happened? How did he… how did you…” I stammer, trying to process what I’m seeing. On closer inspection, the man is young. He can’t be more than a few years older than me.

“I don’t know.” He covers his face with his hands. His fingers are as bloody as the floor.

I take a few careful steps toward him. “Is there anyone else here?”

He shakes his head.

I crouch down next to the man and press my fingers to his neck, hoping beyond all reason to find a pulse. But the second I make contact with his skin, I know he’s gone. He isn’t cold yet, but he isn’t warm enough, either.

“Jake, you need to tell me what happened,” I say.

“I don’t know. He said he had some Molly. All I had to do was… you know. But when I got here, he pinned me down, and I was scared. I took his knife, and I…”

“You what, Jake?”

“I just wanted him off of me.”

My mind reels with questions. What was he planning to do for the Molly? When did the knife come out? How did it end up in the guy’s back? But in the end, it doesn’t matter. All thatmatters is the dead body on the floor, and the scared boy who was just trying to defend himself.

I stand up and walk around the body. The blade is embedded in the middle of the man’s back—exactly where it would be if Jake’s older brother had come to save him and resorted to desperate measures.

I crouch down next to the knife. It has a black handle. I use the bottom of my T-shirt to wipe it down. Once I’m done, I wrap my fingers around it.

“What are you doing?” Jake asks.

“What I have to.” I step on the other side of the body where the pool of blood is, then back away slowly, allowing my footprints to leave impressions on the cement floor.

“Slade… I don’t understand.”

“We’re in Texas. If you kill somebody while committing another felony, they can try you for capital murder. You were buying drugs, so there’s your felony. They’ll give you the death penalty for that.”

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