Page 32 of The Mafia King's Baby

A longer pause. “Yes.”

The simple honesty of it makes me wince. Yes. Not self-defense, not accidents, and no justifications or explanations. Just yes, I have killed other people, and now you know with what you’re dealing.

I should be running. Screaming. Calling 911 and taking my chances with the truth. Instead, I wrap more tape around a dead man’s head while having a casual conversation with his killer about murder statistics. “How many?”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

Yefrem studies my face for a long moment, and I see him weighing how much truth I can handle. “More than one. Fewer than you’re imagining.”

“I don’t know what I’m imagining anymore.”

“Good. That’s probably safer.”

We finish securing the bundle in silence, testing the edges and adding reinforcement where needed. When we’re done, Lang’s body is completely contained within the rug, sealed with enough tape to prevent any forensic evidence from escaping. The bundle is awkward and heavy but manageable for two people working together.

My living room looks like a disaster zone. There’s blood on the floor, some of the furniture is knocked over or pushed aside, and empty tape rolls remain on the floor where I dropped them. One has rolled into the congealing blood pile and is slowly soaking up the liquid—it’s better not to think about it as blood—to become stained reddish-brown. The couch cushions are askew from when I’d thrown myself down earlier, before Lang burst into my home and ruined my life.

“We need to get him to my car.”

I look up. “Where is it?”

He jerks with his head. “Three blocks away, but I’ll move it to your garage first, for cover.”

I nod, incapable of speaking as he heads for the front door, leaving me alone with the wrapped body. The silence presses in around me, thick and oppressive. I stare at the bundle on my floor and try to reconcile what I’m seeing with reality. Inside that tape and rug is Marcus Lang, who knocked on Mrs. Patterson’s door a few hours ago asking questions about a man named Aleks Sokolov.

I’d lied to him. Looked him right in the eye and lied to a federal agent because some instinct I didn’t understand told me not to trust him. If I’d told the truth, would he still be alive? Would I be sitting in a federal holding cell right now instead of standing in my living room planning where to bury a corpse?

The garage door rumbles open moments later, and I hear Yefrem’s car pulling inside. The sound is familiar, but from this point onward, will I associate it with the sound of preparation for body disposal? Everything familiar has become sinister, likelooking at the world through a funhouse mirror where normal activities hide criminal purposes.

Yefrem returns through the kitchen, bringing with him a draft of night air that carries the scent of approaching rain. The weather forecast had mentioned possible storms later in the week. I’d planned to use the time to apply for jobs and maybe tweak my listing to get more guests. Instead, I’ll be hoping the rain washes away any evidence we might leave behind.

“Ready?”

The question is reasonable and practical. Am I ready to carry a dead federal agent to a car so we can drive him somewhere and bury him? Is anyone ever ready for that?

“No.”

He gives me a sympathetic look. “Neither was I, the first time.”

I arch a brow. “When was the first time?”

“When I was fifteen.”

Fifteen. The casual way he says it, like mentioning when he learned to drive or got his first job, is what really stuns me. I was fifteen once too, worried about algebra tests and whether Josh Morrison would ask me to the spring dance. Yefrem was fifteen and apparently learning how to dispose of bodies.

We lift the bundle together, and the weight settles on my shoulders, making me grunt. It’s not just the actual weight, though that’s considerable, but the metaphorical weight of what we’re doing and what I’m becoming. Every step toward the garage is a step farther away from the person I used to be.

“Careful on the steps.” Yefrem’s warning comes just as my foot catches on the threshold leading to the garage. I stumble, nearly dropping my end of the bundle, and he adjusts quickly to keep it secure.

The near-fall sends a jolt of panic through me. What if we’d dropped him? What if the tape had come loose and Lang’s body had spilled out onto my garage floor? The image is so vivid and horrible I almost lose my grip again.

His car is a dark sedan, nondescript in the way that expensive cars sometimes are when they’re trying not to draw attention. German engineering hiding in plain sight. The trunk is already open, a black maw waiting to swallow the evidence of what happened in my kitchen.

Loading the bundle takes more effort than I expected. Lang’s body wants to fold wrong, the rug makes everything slippery, and my hands keep losing their grip. We have to try three different angles before we find one that works, and by the time we get him settled, I’m sweating despite the cool night air.

“It looks so much easier on TV,” I say in a disconnected voice.

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