“Traffic at midnight? This is stupid.”
I roll down my windows, turn off my air, and turn up the music. Even night time is stupid hot in the summer. I want to go back to Colorado. Stupid fucking job relocation. Who wants to move to Arizona? It’s hot. Stupid hot.
Half way through.
I need a new job anyway. ‘Anything to get the job done.’ This is what I said in my interview. I had no idea they would hold me to it. New state. New position. Stay until it’s finished. I left after eleven tonight. And now this.
I’m finally at the front of the line, about to have my turn through the one open lane.
Please let me over. Thank you.
There was an accident. I wonder if anyone is actually hurt. I look as long as I can. I’m almost through when I see her. Oh my god. They don’t have a sheet on her yet, why? A man in a uniform is bent over her, taking photos. Shit. I realize there’s no wrecked car. I realize, too, that she is beneath an overpass.
Shit, she jumped? Or was thrown? They must be trying to figure that out.
What fool blocked the traffic line? I should have been past by now. I inspect the traffic in front of me, then look to her again. There’s blood all over her, blood absorbed into the cement. Blonde hair, white top, green skirt.
What happened to her?
I hear my passenger door open. I jump, turn my head, lean against the driver door. I don’t have any cash. I don’t have a weapon. It’s her. I look back to the body, then to the woman.
She puts a hand up to her mouth. “Shhhhhh.”
My mouth opens, but I can’t say anything. She looks at me, smiles like the smoothest seductress, then yanks my tongue out of my mouth. I’m thrown in the backseat before she climbs behind the wheel and leads us god knows where.
Copyright WB Welch – All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.