The last thing I hear before darkness swallows me whole, calm and cruel as ever.
“Let’s go home.”
THOR
“You ever wonderhow much bad karma you rack up dumping a body?” I ask, watching Vincent's plastic-wrapped corpse make a disappointing splash in Lake Mead's dark waters. “Like, on a scale of 'cut someone off in traffic' to 'drown a puppy,' where does this fall?”
Ratchet grunts beside me, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Depends. You asking about dumping any body or this particular sack of shit?”
“Fair point.”
We stand in silence, watching the ripples spread across the water’s surface. The sky burns with the last colors of sunset—deep gold bleeding into bruised purple—casting long shadows that make the whole scene feel like a bad movie. The kind where the killers always get caught because they do stupid shit like dump bodies in tourist attractions.
“You think fish eat people?” Ratchet asks, lighting a cigarette. “Like, are there catfish down there right now thinking 'oh hell yeah, dinner is served'?”
“Jesus Christ, man.” I shake my head but can't help the laugh that escapes. “That's what you're thinking about right now?”
“I'm just saying, circle of life and all that. Vincent finally contributing something positive to the world by becoming fish food.”
The body bobs once before beginning its final descent, weighted down by the chains we wrapped around it. Not our most professional disposal job, but we were working with limited time and resources.
“Should've brought my fishing pole,” Ratchet says.
“You fish?”
“Hell no. But might be funny to see what bites on a Vincent lure.” Ratchet flicks his cigarette into the water. “Maybe we'd catch something bigger and meaner. Like karma.”
“You believe in that shit?” I ask, watching the last air bubbles rise to the surface where Vincent disappeared.
“Karma? Nah. But I do believe in consequences. And that asshole's swimming with the fishes because of his own choices.”
I snort, turning away from the water, “Poetic.”
“I have my moments.” Ratchet stretches, his back popping loud enough to echo.
The van sits where we left it, half-hidden behind scraggly desert brush.
“We need to burn these clothes,” I mutter, looking down at my blood-stained shirt. “Too much evidence.”
“Way ahead of you. Got a trash bag in the van. We can strip down when we get back, and toss them in a fire.”
“Efficient,” I say, pulling open the van door. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but my hands are too filthy to touch it. “Check that for me.”
Ratchet wipes his hands on his jeans and pulls my phone from my pocket. His face goes slack as he stares at the screen.
“What?” I demand, suddenly alert. “What is it?”
“Multiple missed calls from V. Text message—” He stops, jaw clenching. “Fuck. FUCK!”
He shoves the phone at me. The message glows like a death sentence.
SOS. THEY FOUND US.
My heart stops. The world narrows to a pinpoint of rage and terror so intense it feels like my skull might split. I grab the phone, hitting redial with bloody fingers, but it goes straight to voicemail.
“Drive,” I growl, hurling myself into the passenger seat. “NOW!”
Ratchet doesn't hesitate. The engine roars to life, tires spitting gravel as we tear back toward the highway. Every second feels like an eternity. My mind floods with images—Charlotte, terrified. V, outnumbered.
