Page 74 of Their Little Ghost

“It’s too soon to say,” he replies. “We’ll keep you updated, Magnus.”

My father nods solemnly as the sheriff instructs a begrudging Officer Blackwell to drive me home.

“Feel better soon,” Mom says as I trot away and mumble half-hearted goodbyes.

The cool night air nips my legs as we stroll across the courtyard to the waiting car. I clench my ass cheeks and waddle awkwardly to disguise my discomfort. If not for the evidence leaking out of me, I’d have questioned whether my debasement was a fever dream.

Sheriff Brady, ahead of us, speeds out of Sunnycrest’s gates. His tires roar on the concrete, the noise carrying over the wind to join the wailing sirens in the distance.

“Get in,” Officer Blackwell grunts.

“Sorry to be a pain,” I say, hopping into the passenger seat.

He mumbles something under his breath. I don’t fully catch what he says. Although, I can make out ‘babysitter’ and ‘not a ride-along’.

I wrap my arms around my middle and shiver. Every person in town is now under my suspicion. Does Officer Blackwell know about my father’s misdeeds? What about the sheriff? How far does his corrupt influence extend?

After a short drive, blue lights emerge from the tree line, slipping through the branches and illuminating the leaves. There’s a flurry of activity where a group of squad cars gather.

Blackwell slows as we pass, lowering his window to speak to a colleague who is cordoning off a section of road with yellow tape.

“How bad is it?” Blackwell asks.

“A total wreck,” the officer replies, shaking his head. “There’s no way anyone survived. The bonnet’s stretched around a tree. It’s gonna take hours to get out. We’ll be here all night.”

“They don’t call this the highway to hell for nothing,” Blackwell remarks. “How did it happen?”

“Hard to say. My money’s on them taking the corner too fast,” the officer says. “That’s the thing with sports cars. People don’t know how to ride them on roads like this, especially with the frost.”

“It’s not a racetrack,” Blackwell agrees.

The officer shines a torch past him to illuminate my face. “What’s with the girl?”

“A favor for the sheriff,” Blackwell replies, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”

We drive away, and Blackwell cranks up the police radio to stay up-to-date with what’s happening. Sheriff Brady’s voice crackles, shooting orders left and right.

“We have the registration,” an officer, who must be near the wreckage, radios. “G01 DY3.”

A chill runs down my spine.

I know that plate.

“Run the plates,” Sheriff Brady orders.

“You don’t need to do that,” I say.

“What?” Blackwell lowers the volume in annoyance. “Did you say something?”

“I… um…” I shouldn’t have said anything, but it’s too late to hold back. “I know who the car belongs to.”

“Who?”

“Robert Gilsmear,” I reply.

Blackwell jumps into action, responding to his colleagues.

I bite my inner cheek to stop myself from smiling. My men didn’t let Gilsmear go unpunished for touching me. Some men bring women flowers, but mine deliver bodies. I never thought I’d be a fan of the latter, but I’ll make an exception in Gilsmear’s case, especially after seeing him torture Lex in the video. Crashing into a ravine seems almost too kind.