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“Omigod! You poor thing!”

  Willow notices Cameron is still holding Kathy’s head under water.

  “Is she—”

  Cameron starts crying.

  Willow says, “You had to do it. If she’d gotten hold of the gun she could’ve killed you.”

  “I killed someone!” Cameron says, between sobs.

  “It’s my fault. You didn’t even want to be here. It’s my fault she’s dead.”

  “My life’s over,” Cameron says.

  “No. It’ll be all right. We’ll figure something out.”

  “If they catch us, you’ll tell.”

  “No.”

  Willow sits on the side of the tub and says, “Let go of her, Cam.”

  “I’m afraid to.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll hold her under.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re my friend,” Willow says. “And we’re in this together.”

  Cameron releases her grip, and Kathy’s head bobs to the surface. But her face remains submerged.

  “She’s already dead,” Cameron says.

  “You never know.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Willow takes over and pushes Kathy’s face deeper into the water and holds it there for five minutes. Then both girls stand and hug each other and cry.

  Cameron finally says, “You never touched the safe, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Or anything else?”

  “Just the tub and faucet handles. And the phone cords.”

  “And I touched the inside door knob and the lock.”

  “There’s blood on the tub, but not the bathroom floor,” Willow says.

  “Guess I got her over the tub so fast she didn’t have time to bleed on the floor.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Shit!” Cameron says.

  “What?”

  “We showered last night, and fucked her husband on the bed. And both of us were on the chair. You think he flushed the condoms?”

  They go back in the bedroom and look around.

  The bed is made, the room neat, the gun back in the drawer with the remaining unwrapped condoms.

  “Let’s not take any chances,” Cameron says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We should strip the bed and wipe down all the surfaces, vacuum the chair and floor, and clean the shower.”

  “What about the vacuum cleaner?”

  “Good point. We’ll need to take it with us.”

  “We’ll also need to wipe your prints off the front door.”

  “And yours off the telephones and the cords. After we put them back like they were.”

  “You look for the vacuum cleaner,” Willow says. “I’ll find a trash bag for the sheets, spread, and pillow cases.”

  “First, flush all the toilets.”

  “Why?”

  “To make sure the condoms haven’t stopped them up.”

  “Good idea.”

  Twenty minutes later Willow exits the front door, carrying the trash bag. Cameron’s right behind her, carrying the vacuum cleaner, closing the door. Willow looks around to see if any neighbors are about, but sees no one. She walks ten feet before realizing Cameron hasn’t caught up to her. She turns to see what’s taking her friend so long to get her butt in gear and sees Cameron standing on the front porch, staring directly into the security camera.

  11.

  “WE’RE SCREWED,” CAMERON says.

  Willow rushes back to Cameron’s side.

  “No problem,” she says.

  “No problem? Are you shitting me?”

  She points to the camera.

  Willow says, “We’ll go inside, find the surveillance tape, and pull it out of the machine.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just locked the front door.”

  “We could break in the back,” Willow says. “It won’t be that hard. There’s a sliding glass door and—”

  The suddenness of Willow’s pause makes Cameron turn to look at her. Willow’s staring at the camera, smiling.

  “We’re screwed, and you’re standing here making a fucking movie?”

  “It’s a fake camera,” Willow says.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Bobby used to sell and install security systems, remember?”

  “So?”

  “Half the cameras he installed were fakes.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Most customers were too cheap to spring for the full system. And nine out of ten burglars don’t know the difference between real and fake cameras.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Probably not. But it’s what Bobby told the clients.”

  “So when he couldn’t sell the real thing he talked them into buying the fakes?”

  “Exactly. For ten cents on the dollar.”

  “And you’re certain this one’s a fake?”

  “Positive. We’ve got a dozen just like them in our apartment.”

  “Seriously Willow? Because if you’re wrong it’s our asses.”

  “Seriously. Now let’s get out of here!”

  They walk briskly to the car, climb in, and start driving to Willow’s apartment.

  “What about the bedding?” Cameron says.

  “We should take it to a laundromat and wash and dry it. Then take it to my place, cut everything into small pieces with scissors, and scatter the pieces in dumpsters all over town.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. We’ll wash and dry it and put it in your trunk. After work, we’ll take it to my parent’s house. They’ve got a fire pit. We’ll burn it while making smores.”

  “What about the vacuum cleaner?”

  “Pull over, and we’ll dump out the dust. I need a sweeper anyway. I’ll take it home and wash it from top to bottom, hose and everything.”

  “I like the idea of cleaning it,” Willow says. “But keeping it? What if the police show up?”

  “Good point. Okay, I’ll wash it out this afternoon. You’ll pick me up and drive me to work and we’ll put the sweeper in your trunk. After work we’ll toss it in a dumpster on our way to my parents’ house.”

  An hour later they fold the warm sheets, pillow cases and blanket, and place everything back in the trash bag and put it in Willow’s trunk. They ride quietly back to Cameron’s duplex.

  Still in the car with the doors locked, Cameron says, “We’ll never speak of this again, no matter what. If something happens and the police put us in separate interrogation rooms, we won’t flip on each other.”

  “They always lie and say the other person ratted you out.”

  “But we won’t flip on each other.”

  “No.”

  “Swear it.”

  “I swear. Now you.”

  “I swear.”

  They sit in the car a minute, thinking about what they’ve done.

  Then Willow says, “Chris Fowler.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’ll know we did it.”

  “He won’t have any reason to suspect us,” Cameron says.

  “He will. Last night was a big deal. He’ll come home, find his wife murdered, see the safe open. He’ll wonder who would do such a thing.”

  “Us?”

  Willow nods.

  “So?”

  “He knows where we work.”

  Cameron thinks a minute, then says, “He won’t want to admit what happened last night.”

  “He’ll have to. He’s the prime suspect.”

  “Not if he’s got a great alibi. He’s at work, right? Wherever that is, there must be a dozen people who can vouch for his whereabouts.”

  “If they can establish a proper timeline.”

  “They always—oh shit!” Cameron says.

  “What now?”

  Willow turns to her left just in time to see Bobby smash his fist against her window.

  She screams.<
br />
  “Get out!” He shouts. “Right now. Both of you!”

  Cameron says, “Drive away, Willow.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have to. He’s bombed out of his mind. Drive away and wait till he crashes. He’ll probably forget the whole thing.”

  Bobby punches the window again. “Lower the fucking window!”

  “No!” Willow shouts. “Not till you calm down!”

  “Lower the window now!”

  “Not till you calm down. You’re totally wasted. I’m getting out of here.”

  She looks into the rear view mirror, reaches her hand toward the steering column to put the car in reverse, but he punches the window twice.

  “Stop it!” Willow yells. “You’re going to break your hand!”

  “You’re worried about his hand?” Cameron says. “Jesus, Willow!”

  “Lower the fucking window!” Bobby shouts.

  “Not till you calm down!”

  He pauses. “Okay. Okay, fine,” he says. “I’m calming. I’m calming.”

  The girls watch Bobby relax his posture, then his facial features, until he looks like a demented choirboy.

  “I liked him better the other way,” Cameron says.

  “See how I live?” Willow says.

  She lowers the window two inches and says, “What the fuck was that all about?”

  “I need a ride.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “I borrowed a guy’s car.”

  “What guy?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Willow unlocks the doors, Bobby climbs in the back, behind her.

  She says, “Why are you here?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “Well, I’ve got your money.”

  “You’ve been gone all day.”

  “I was trying to score some blow for you.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I couldn’t find Chuckie. We looked everywhere.”

  “Right. Just start the car and drive where I tell you.”

  “Forgetting something?” Cameron says. “I live here. See you later, Willow.”

  She reaches for the door handle, but Bobby grabs her by the hair.

  She kicks and screams, but he works his other hand around her throat to cut off her air.

  Willow shouts, “Let her go!”

  With one quick motion Bobby pulls Cameron into the back seat and punches her face.

  “You bastard!” Cameron gasps.

  She hits him back, splits his lip.

  “Bitch!” Bobby yells, and smashes her temple.

  Cameron’s head bounces off the window. Her body goes slack.

  Willow shouts, “What are you doing? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “Wrong with me? Wrong with me? If you don’t start the car and drive where I tell you, I’ll snap her chicken neck right now.”

  Willow starts the car and waits for Bobby’s directions.

  “Drive to Ream’s Park,” he says.

  12.

  REAM’S IS A neighborhood park, less than a mile from Cameron’s house. Bobby tells Willow to park behind the worker’s shed, next to the black Mercedes. The one that looks exactly like Chris Fowler’s, except for the rental tags.

  “Is Cameron okay?”

  “Don’t worry about Stringbean,” Bobby says. “She’s coming to. And when she does you better tell her to keep her mouth shut.”

  Looking at him in the mirror, this Bobby seems more reasonable than the one who tried to smash her window. But the crazed look in his eyes concerns her.

  “Why’d you hit Cameron?”

  “Cut the engine and hand me the keys.”

  She does.

  “What now?”

  “We’re changing rides.”

  “The Mercedes?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. We’re moving up in the world, baby!”

  Do they even rent Mercedes sedans? They must, she decides, since this one’s clearly a rental. But Bobby didn’t rent it. He has no credit. He said he borrowed it from a guy. If true, why would he stash it here and walk to Cameron’s house?

  He wouldn’t. Unless it was stolen.

  “What’s going on here, Bobby?”

  “We’re about to have an adventure. Soon as Cameron’s up for it.”

  It takes five minutes for Cameron to get lucid, and when she is she’s mad as a wounded wolverine. She and Bobby get into a slapping and yelling match that ends when he punches her forehead and knocks her semi-conscious.

  He cocks his fist to hit her again, but Willow purposely interrupts his train of thought by asking, “Who’s car is that?”

  “Huh? What?”

  “Who’s Mercedes is that?”

  “I told you. I borrowed it from a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “Guy I met at Shady’s last night.”

  “What is he, a drug dealer?”

  A strange look comes over Bobby’s face, like he just remembered he’s the one supposed to be angry here. Angry and in charge.

  He says, “Get your ass out of the car, Willow.” He looks at Cameron. “You too, Stringbean.”

  Willow looks at Cameron. She’s trying to mouth something. Trying to get Willow to read her lips. She’s…

  Gun.

  She’s mouthing the word “gun.”

  Willow has Bobby’s gun in her purse.

  She shakes her head.

  Like she’s supposed to what, pull a gun on crazy Bobby? He’ll rip it out of her hands and pistol-whip them both.

  “Now!” Bobby says.

  Willow opens the door, gets out, then leans back in.

  “What about my car? I can’t leave it here.”

  “We’ll get it later.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. We’re having a sleepover.”

  The girls share a quick look of panic.

  “I’ve got some things in the trunk,” Willow says.

  “What sort of things?”

  “Bedding.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got some bedding in the trunk.”

  “You mean like sheets and shit?”

  “Yeah. And a blanket. And pillow cases.”

  “So?”

  “I need them.”

  “What’re you, nuts?”

  “I’m not leaving without them.”

  “What?”

  “Or my vacuum cleaner,” Cameron says.

  “Your what?”

  “That’s right,” Willow says. “I’ve got bedding, Cameron has a vacuum cleaner. In the trunk. We need them.”

  Bobby’s practically delirious from the speedball. He knows his brain’s all over the place. Nevertheless, he’s positive he’s not dreaming.

  “We don’t have room for bedding and a vacuum cleaner. You’ll have to leave them here.”

  “No!” Willow says.

  “Don’t you tell me no!” Bobby yells, and launches a fist toward Willow’s face. She easily avoids it, backs out of the car and dashes around the front.

  Bobby grabs his door handle intending to jump out and chase her, then realizes Willow’s rounded the car. She’s heading for the front passenger door, reaching for the handle.

  She wants to open the door?

  To get what, her purse?

  His drug-addled brain is reacting slowly, but not so slowly he can’t figure out why she wants her purse. It’s the reason he fired up his motorcycle to go looking for her this morning after waking up and finding her gone.

  After realizing his gun was missing.

  Willow gets the door open just as Bobby lunges forward.

  The purse is on the edge of the passenger seat, just right of the console. They grab it at the same time, but Willow’s got the angle and the leverage, and easily rips it from Bobby’s grasp. Unfortunately, the purse is open, and as she pulls it free, Bobby’s gun falls out. He grabs it and points it at Willow’s face. She backs away, slowly.

  Bobby turns
the gun on Cameron and says, “Say goodbye to Stringbean!”

  “Stop!” Willow yells.

  “I’ll stop if you open Stringbean’s door.”

  Willow could probably get away, but she can’t leave Cameron with Bobby. He’s capable of anything when on drugs. Not to mention she can’t abandon her car while the items are still in her trunk. They’re evidence of the murder.

  Willow opens Cameron’s door.

  “Okay, Stringbean,” Bobby says. “Get out.”

  Cameron climbs out, gives Willow a look of disappointment.

  Bobby follows her, but when he tries to stand his knees are so shaky he has to put his left hand on the car to steady himself. His head’s swimming, urging him to lie down, close his eyes, drift. It would be so easy to lose control of the situation.

  He focuses on the women.

  “Get in the Mercedes,” he says. “Both of you.”

  “Not without my bedding,” Willow says.

  “And my vacuum cleaner,” Cameron adds.

  “This again?” Bobby says.

  “Kill us now, or give us our stuff,” Willow says in a voice so strong and steady she seems to mean it.

  “You’re willing to die for a fucking vacuum cleaner?”

  “And bedding. So either pull the trigger, Badass, or let me have my stuff.”

  Bobby knows the drugs are working on his mind. Even so, Willow never speaks to him this way.

  “Am I missing something?” he says.

  “We want our stuff,” Willow says. “We’ll go with you, but we want our stuff.”

  “We want our stuff,” Cameron says.

  “We want our fucking stuff!” Willow shouts.

  “Jesus Christ!” he shouts. “Shut the fuck up!”

  “We want our stuff!” Willow shouts. “Give us our stuff!”

  “You’re insane!” he yells.

  It suddenly dawns on Bobby he’s standing in a park in broad daylight holding a gun on one woman, while another is shouting at him. And yet both are willing to go with him quietly if he’ll let them bring their stupid things.

  “Fine,” he says. “Get your shit. Put it in the other trunk.”

  To Willow he says, “While she’s doing that, get in the Mercedes. You’re driving.”

  Bobby pops Willow’s trunk open, then watches Willow get in the Mercedes. When she closes the door he turns his attention to Cameron, who’s carrying the bedding toward the back of the Mercedes.

  He scrunches his face in thought. Something about the back of the Mercedes.

  But what?