Page 32 of Keeping Her Under (Deranged Highway, #1)

Thirty-Two

I don’t immediately kill myself.

I get my affairs in order first.

I put Summer Wintry in my will.

I make sure Asher is well taken care of too.

I write him a letter, telling him how much he means to me. How sorry I am for abandoning him. I tell him how much I love him.

Then I write a letter to her.

Only to immediately crumble it up and throw it in the backseat of my car.

An apology on paper sounds so fake. And it’s manipulative – a way for me to heal, not her.

So I start again, and this time, I use a judicial template I find online, framing the inheritance she’s about to receive as nothing more than monetary compensation for the crimes I committed.

She is not getting my savings as a way to clear my conscience before I die.

She’s getting it because she deserves it.

A payment of justice without the courts.

I will burn in Hell for what I’ve done to her.

Now there’s only one more thing left for me to do.

I put the letters in the glovebox, then lean back in my seat. I keep my eyes on the building in front of me – a fucking crisis-help center less than three hours away from Summer’s.

Using the information Asher sent to my burner phone at lunch today, I check the face of everyone who comes out.

It fucking pains me that her mother isn’t even a monster like mine was. Not an addict who failed me at every turn. Autumn Wintry was never reported for hitting her children or leaving them clothesless and hungry. On paper, she seems perfect.

So why the fuck did she turn her back on her daughter? Did she not see the signs of Lance’s sick abuse? Or did she genuinely try to help her at the start, only to fail? Is her daughter nothing more than a reminder of her own uselessness?

Crisis centers only ever let you see the disease. They don’t show you the recovery. Their volunteers never get to see the fruit of their compassion. Never know when they save lives. The caller simply stops calling.

So did Autumn cut her out of her life in order to hold on to her hope about making a difference? Did she fucking choose them over her own daughter?

No. She chose herself.

There was no gallant doctor’s decision on saving the many rather than the few. Autumn is nothing more than a selfish bitch – only pretending to be good.

Hiding her ugliness under a pillar of horseshit.

She’s a hypocrite.

A terrible mother.

A self-righteous disease.

And she’s just walked out of the large, metal-and-glass building.

My hand tightens on the phone as I sit forward. I glance down at the picture on the screen again to confirm that it’s her. The same white, middle-aged blonde stares back at me.

Looking up, I keep my eyes on her. A predator in the dark.

She walks across the carpark. I start my engine, preparing to follow her.

Even though I know where she lives, the plan of killing her there is a messy one.

She has a new husband and an eight-year-old stepdaughter.

Then I would have to stage it to look like a robbery.

That would take too much time when Asher is on his way to stop me.

When I didn’t answer his call, he immediately texted me Autumn’s location on the burner phone.

He knew that would break through whatever self-destructive tendencies that were making me avoid him.

I’d be forced to keep the phone on and nearby rather than toss it so he couldn’t track me – which is exactly what I did.

Now I’m watching her get off work, waiting for an opportunity to kill her before she gets home.

When she crosses the entire carpark, I perk up a little more. She’s not getting into a car, which means she’s walking somewhere. I scan the shops along the way, hoping the one she’s aiming for is across the street.

Most of them are closed at this hour. But there are two restaurants within view. One is on her side of the road. The other is not.

My heart racing, I pull out of the parking lot. I drive away from her for a few blocks, then turn around. Waiting… waiting…

She gets to the T-section.

Come on. Come on.

She looks over her shoulder as if assessing the traffic.

That’s it. Cross the –

Fuck! She stays on the sidewalk, then slips into the restaurant on that side. But I refuse to wait until she’s finished eating.

After turning the burner phone off, I toss it in the seat beside me. As I drive towards the slums, I keep an eye out for my cousin. He might not be able to track me via the cell towers now, but he knows me. He knows how I think. How destructive I can be.

I’m going to break into her house and kill her husband. I’ll scare his daughter into hiding under her bed. I’ll drop her dad’s phone nearby, gloating about how even the cops can’t stop me as I leave. So who can she call but her mom?

Autumn will race home, staying on the line with her, unable to call the police. And when she runs through the door like an idiot, I’ll stab her in the heart.

A simple burglary gone wrong, case closed – as long as I get some DNA from a Black man.

There’s no way I’ll be able to leave no trace of myself behind, and I don’t want Summer to know I killed her mom.

As strained as their relationship is, she still had her number in her phone.

That means she still loves her. She might even blame herself for her mother’s death.

How much of an ass would I be if I forced her to carry that guilt?

But if I frame a Black man, the likelihood of any other evidence being dismissed is higher than it should be. Even if he’s proven to be innocent, he’ll still be believed to be guilty. No one will care about any trace evidence of little, ol’ me.

Sixty percent of wrongful convictions in the US are made about a Black person – of those, 50% are due to police misconduct. They’re seven times more likely to be falsely convicted for serious crimes, like murder. Eight times more for rape. Nineteen times more for drugs.

And if the victim is white, like Summer’s family?

It’s the perfect way for me to not have to worry about any trace DNA, especially since I’m not in any system.

Unless it makes national news…

Fuck!

If that happens, it will spread like wildfire. Then Summer will be assaulted by it every time she goes online, forced to relive her mother’s murder. And with no true suspect, the case will drag on, fanning the flames forever.

Pulling over onto the curb, I slap my hands on the wheel.

Maybe I should just kill myself now.

All I seem to be doing is hurting her.

I cry out in frustration. In rage and self-disgust. Crawling into the backseat, I grab the packet of kitchen knives I bought on the way to Autumn’s place of work.

I didn’t plan on using them on myself. I’m not entirely sure how I was going to do it. I didn’t want it to be messy though because Asher would have to see my body after.

But I can’t put it off any longer. All I’m doing is hurting the woman I love.

“What about me?” Asher’s plea resonates in my head. I can almost hear the phantom ring of the phone.

“Don’t do this, Rath. You promised not to leave me.”

I’m sorry.

The pain in my chest is nearly unbearable. I hate how much this is going to hurt him, but I can’t live anymore. I can’t.

How can I protect Summer if I let someone who hurt her live?

I raped her...

I raped her!

Riiiing!

Riiiing!

Ri–

“Stop!” I scream at the sounds in my head. I bang the packet of knives against my knees. Then I tear at the thick plastic with my teeth as tears stream down my face.

I’m pathetic.

I’m worthless.

The world will be better off without me.

Ripping open the packaging, I pull out a knife.

And lift it to slit my throat.