"I know we technically can get away with itwithoutkilling her, but there's a chance it will follow us if this comes out. Pay-offs and coverups will help in case she talks. But you know who doesn't talk at all?"
"Who?"
"Dead girls."
"Christ, Jackson. You're fucked."
"Oh, come on. It's the truth, you know that. We'll be better off if she's dead."
I open my mouth to tell him that he's sick, that murder is a step too far and wishing her dead is wrong.
Instead, all that comes out is a scream.
There's only half a second for me to see the figure right in front of our car. I don't make out any of the facial features, whether it's a guy or a girl.
All I know is one second they appear there, and then there's a distinctive thud as a body crashes against the windshield, bouncing up onto the hood.
Jackson overcorrects, slamming the brakes too late and sending us in a tailspin that pushes us into the next lane, down the embankment, and into the cornfield.
My head slams against the dashboard as we come to a stop, and I get one glance at the cornfield lit up in the high beams, smoky and hazy, before everything slips into black.
I wake to the sound of the horn blaring, though Jackson's body is no longer pressed against it the way it was before my eyes shut.
His door is open and I'm alone.
It takes a minute before I can pull air into my lungs enough to move, and then I manage to lift my head. It's throbbing, and when I touch the spot that’s the source of the pain, my fingers come away bloody.
"Jackson?" I call, slowly gathering myself to be able to move.
I'm grateful to discover that all my limbs seem to work, and I'm not stuck. My door opens easily, and I practically drop onto the ground in my attempt to get out.
I can smell burning rubber, hear the hiss of what is most certainly a cracked radiator. Jackson's going to be pissed.
But then I remember why we crashed in the first place.
We hit something.
Someone.
Pulling myself to my feet takes effort, but I manage to drag myself up, and each step I take toward the road gets steadier.
There's someone standing in the middle of the road, and for one moment, I consider hiding, waiting for help to come in case it's the person we hit. That doesn’t' make sense, though, because there's a body on the road, too.
"Jackson?"
He doesn't turn as I approach, doesn't give any indication that he even heard me.
"Jackson?" I try again, drawing up to him. He doesn’t turn to face me, his eyes fixed on the ground, the body I can't see. Fear builds in my gut with each step I take, and I don't even want to know who we hit. But I can't not look. What if they're alive? What if I can help save them?
There's no saving the person on the road. He's lying on his stomach. The glow of headlights from a stalled car feet ahead of us illuminate everything enough for us to see that it was indeed a person we hit. Blood is everywhere, in a pool beneath him, and there's no way his arm isn't broken at the angle it's at. But the most damning thing is the way the gauzy headlights illuminate the halo of his brain matter scattered across the pavement.
His skull is crushed, sunken in like it's collapsed on itself. I don't need to check his pulse, because there's no way he survived that. I also don't need to check his face to see who it is. The letterman jacket tells me that, like it's some sick sort of irony. Right above his number, stitched in gold thread that's saturated in blood, is his name.
"I killed Rhodes." Jackson says. His voice sounds far away, detached and cold, like he can't process it.
And maybe he can't.
Rhodes grew up with us; everyone in this town did. He's been our best friend for years, the rational to Jackson's unhinged. And we hit him.
