Page 87 of Trailer Trash

“Sound travels out here,” I said.

He nodded, then switched the flashlight back on and handed it to me. “It works in our favor and makes it harder for anyone to sneak up on us.”

He resumed digging, to my right this time, and a few minutes later he discovered the edge of the bag. He was less gentle with it, prying it loose in less than a minute.

I started to hyperventilate.

His gaze turned toward me. “Neely Kate. Why don’t you go wait in the car?”

I shook my head.

“You helped me find him,” he said. “There’s absolutely no reason for you to relive this. Let me handle it.”

“I can’t.”

He studied me for a second. “Okay. Why don’t you stand by my bag and watch the road for me?”

It was a bogus job, and we both knew it. But I wouldn’t be helping either of us if I passed out beside the body.

I turned my back to him, and several seconds later he said, “I was right about Branson wanting the bag. There’s probably ten thousand dollars in here. I wonder if he was making a drug deal too.”

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. “BecauseIcouldn’t be worth ten grand.”

“Neely Kate.”

I shook my head. “Just get this over with.”

He tossed the bag behind me, then kept digging.

“Was the camera in there?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“Yes.”

“His clothes should have been underneath it.”

“I think I’ve just found them.” After a few more shovelfuls of dirt, he stopped and squatted, then tossed a couple of pieces of fabric onto the ground behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder as he took off his gloves and reached his hand into a mass of fabric, removing a leather wallet. He flipped it open.

“Pearce Manchester. Sound familiar?” he asked.

I shuddered. Now I had a name to accompany the face in my nightmares. “No.”

“I’ve heard of him. He was a Dallas businessman who went missing about five years ago. No one knew what happened to him, but his oil-rich family put up a reward. Branson may be after that too.”

“Wouldn’t he implicate himself?”

“Not necessarily. He probably figured he could make some bogus claim that he stumbled upon the body.”

“And me?”

“Have you ever been arrested?”

“Once. For shoplifting. Not long after I got here. I pled guilty and got off with community service.”

“Then they have your prints, but probably not your DNA. Still, I’m not leaving any evidence behind to tie you to the crime. He must have scratched you while you were strangling him, which means your DNA is under his fingernails and possibly on what’s left of the lower part of him.” He paused. “We have two options. We burn his body and destroy any DNA evidence, or we move his body so Branson never finds it.”

“Where would you move it to?”

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