Page 86 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

“I’ll drive you back,” Thatcher says, his voice quiet but steady, the earlier edge of teasing replaced by something calmer, almost soothing.

I blink at him, still trying to process what his protection means. The joke he made about killing someone was not funny. Before I can come to terms about anything, I’m outside and Thatcher is guiding me into the passenger side of his car. I watch him dimly as he rounds the car and slides in beside me.

When the car comes to life and starts moving, that’s when I snap out of it. My gaze snaps to Thatcher, who’s completely focused on the road as he turns. The earlier tenderness in his expression is replaced by a calm, unreadable mask, but my skin feels hypersensitive, every brush of fabric against my thighs a reminder of what happened in that diner’s bathroom.

I shift in the passenger seat, hyperaware of the slick warmth between my legs, the way my pulse still hammers in places that have nothing to do with my heart. The leather is cool against myback as I lean into it, trying to ground myself in something other than the memory of Thatcher’s hands on me, his mouth against my neck, the desperate way I clung to him as he—

Stop. Focus.

The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s charged with an electricity that makes the air feel thick, heavy with unspoken words and the scent of what we just did. I can smell him on my skin—that intoxicating blend of sandalwood and something darker, more primal. The taste of him still lingers on my tongue.

I reach for the air conditioning controls, needing something to do with my hands, some excuse for the restless energy thrumming through me. The digital display glows blue as I adjust the temperature, then the fan speed, then the direction of the vents. Anything to avoid looking at him, avoid acknowledging the way his presence seems to fill every inch of this enclosed space.

My fingers are sticky with syrup from breakfast. The sweetness clinging to my skin is a sensory anchor to the mundane world, to the version of myself who ate pancakes and laughed at Thatcher’s jokes like we were a normal couple on a normal date.

But we’re not normal, are we? Nothing about this is normal.

I lean forward to open the glove compartment, searching for tissues or napkins, anything to clean the syrup residue from my fingertips. The compartment opens with a soft click, revealing the usual car detritus—registration papers, a phone charger, breath mints.

My hand brushes against something that crinkles softly, the sound distinct and somehow ominous in the quiet car. It’s wedged beneath the owner’s manual, just a corner visible. Without thinking, I pull it out.

“Put that back,” Thatcher says.

He tries to grab them, but now I’m curious, pulling out of his reach.

A small envelope of Fujifilm Instax photos slides into my palm, the kind of instant film pictures that develop right before your eyes. Curiosity overrides caution as I flip open the envelope, extracting the small square photographs. The first one slides out easily, and my world tilts sideways.

“Dove, I fucking said–”

But it’s too late.

Jack’s face stares back at me, eyes closed, dark hair matted with blood that spreads in an abstract pattern across the hardwood floor. The image is stark, clinical in its clarity, and for a moment my brain simply refuses to process what I’m seeing.

But then the details register. He’s breathing. He’s alive.

My hands begin to shake, a tremor that starts in my fingertips and spreads up my arms like an earthquake. The photo flutters between my fingers as I stare at it, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

There’s another photo behind it. With numb fingers, I slide it out, already knowing what I’ll find but hoping desperately that I’m wrong.

The same scene. The same angle. More blood has pooled beneath his head, a dark halo that wasn’t there in the first picture. His last moments between life and death.

“What the fuck is this?” The words tear from my throat, hoarse and broken, barely recognizable as my own voice.

Thatcher glances over from the driver’s seat, his eyes flicking to the photos in my trembling hands. I watch his jaw tighten, see the muscle tick beneath his skin.

“Put those back, Rhea.” His voice is calm, controlled, as if I’m holding something as innocuous as grocery receipts instead of evidence of a murder.

“No.” The word comes out sharp, brittle with panic. “No, what the hell is this? Why do you have pictures of—”

I stop, staring at the photos again, my mind racing to catch up with what my eyes are showing me. The angle of the shots, the professional composition, the way the light catches the blood just so. These aren’t crime scene photos taken by police. These are deliberate. Intentional.

“He was alive.” I can barely hear my own voice over the roar of blood in my ears. “In this first one, he was still alive.”

Thatcher’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel, his grip so tight I can see the tendons standing out beneath his skin. But his expression remains maddeningly neutral, as if we’re discussing the weather.

“You told me he died when he hit the bureau.” My voice is getting stronger now, fueled by a growing horror that threatens to consume me. “But these... Thatcher, what did you do?”

The question hangs in the air between us, accusatory and desperate. The car feels smaller suddenly, the leather seats too close, the air too thin. I can’t breathe properly, can’t seem to get enough oxygen into my lungs.

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