Page 71 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves
If Carson doesn’t show, I will be dragging Walter’s corpse down this hill by myself like a demented pack mule with rage issues and a bad knee. I’ll do it. I’ll absolutely do it. But I’ll bitch about it the entire way.
And maybe cry.
God, I hope this doesn’t stain my new boots.
There’s a rustle of leaves behind me. Followed by the crunch of boots on dry dirt. It’s not Carson’s boots. Carson walks like a cop, measured, heavy, full of judgement and unspoken boners. This is cockier. Like someone who thinks the trail should applaud because he’s gracing it with his orthopedic mall shoes.
“Seriously?” a voice calls out, oozing arrogance like it’s a cologne note. “A business meeting in the woods? I should’ve known. This has your brand of crazy written all over it.”
I turn.
And there is Walter Fucking Lane. Wearing the same smug face he used to wear while explaining how I “just didn’t understand what real intimacy meant.” Except now he’s older. Puffier. His hairline is in retreat. But his ego is still bloated enough to block the sun.
My mouth goes dry.
He stops a few feet away, gives me a once-over like he’s appraising a dented car. “Wow,” he says. “You got old.”
I pause, processing the sheer, uncut dickhead he wears like a letterman jacket. “Still trying too hard, huh?” I shoot back, eyes dragging over his stupid button-down and the gold chain peeking through like a midlife crisis wormed its way out of his chest hair and made fashion decisions.
He laughs. Like I’m a joke he’s heard before and doesn’t mind recycling. “God, you’re still bitter. I guess nothing’s changed.”
“Actually,” I say sweetly, “I learned how to use a bone saw.”
He squints. Like I’m speaking in riddles instead of murder.
“Still dramatic as ever,” he says, stepping closer. “You said this was about a consultation? Where’s the client? Or is this just another one of your meltdowns in makeup?”
He goes in for a hug. A hug. Like we’re about to share a potluck casserole and forget the time he fractured my rib for talking back about gas bills.
I freeze. Body locked. Breathing shallow. One hand clenched so tight around the handle of my meat tenderizer that I swear I hear the metal creak. For a split second, one ugly, slippery second, I’m not here. I’m back in that kitchen. Cold tile on my face. His voice above me saying, “See what you made me do?”
I can’t move.
I can’t…
“You know,” he drawls, stepping back and looking me over with a smirk, “it makes sense now. Why none of them stick. All your little boyfriends disappear because you’re broken. Always have been. Stop pretending you’ll ever find anyone else to put up with your shit and come home. I’ll forgive, if you ask nicely. On your knees.”
“Walter?” I say, voice calm.
“Yeah?”
“You just made the list.”
He doesn’t have time to ask what list. I snap like a twig underfoot. Like a bone.
I pull the knife. Then the gun. Then immediately second-guess both. This is why I should’ve brought the decorative axe. Always make a murder statement.
His smile fades as I step forward. He barely has time to register the switch. One second he’s smirking like the patron saint of smug divorcees, the next…
THWACK.
The meat tenderizer connects with his shoulder instead of his skull, because apparently I still crack under pressure and this thing is heavier than it looks.
“Jesus Christ, Jen!” he yelps, stumbling backward, clutching his arm. “What the hell are you doing? Assaulting me with a kitchen utensil?!”
“It’s for meat,” I say, advancing. “Which I now realize you barely qualify as.”
THWACK.
