Today's Promises (Promises #2)(49)

Only problem I run into is that it takes a lot more effort than Flynn had to expend for little ‘ole me to lift the damn slab off the ground. My clammy hands don’t help matters. Seems it’s nearly impossible to keep a firm grip on the edge of the cement, leaving it to slip and slide this way and that, but not in the direction I want it to go.

Finally, after a few tries, I have enough of a steady hold to heave the slab off to the side.

“Ugh.” I fall back on my ass and suck in a few much-needed breaths.

After a couple of minutes spent recuperating, I’m back my knees and digging the loose earth with my hands.

Down, down, down I burrow, down to where Flynn buried the bloody towel.

“There it is,” I blurt out when I spy the soiled item.

Grabbing the edge gingerly, I use it to lift out the knife we also planted.

As I rise to my feet, our fake evidence in hand, I stare down at the empty hole. For a minute I consider filling it in, but then I decide to leave it as it is. This way, maybe it’ll look like a vandal or partier got to the knife and towel, leaving Detective Silver to conclude the same when he’s here tomorrow.

I release a sigh as I think about the repercussions of making this move. Removing our manufactured evidence means Allison will receive her early release. Even though it’s less than ideal, it’s still a more palatable outcome than Flynn going to prison for planting evidence.

This was all a crazy, reckless idea from the start.

Resigned that this is the way it has to be—we have too much to lose otherwise—I head toward the big barn door that I left partially open. But I falter when a shadow suddenly appears across the opening, dimming the sunlit view.

“What the hell,” I gasp.

Oh my God, what if there was someone in the house? What if it’s some derelict with plans to hurt me?

I was hurt before by a sick man, and it took Flynn and his infinite amount of patience to help me heal.

Looking for a way out, I pivot left and right.

But there’s nowhere to run.

Should I cower and hide?

No.

To hell with not fighting back. I will never again be a victim.

Scanning the barn, I search for something with which to bash in this potential assailant’s head.

But then I realize there’s no need to search for a weapon.

I already have one—the sharp knife with Debbie Canfield’s blood on it is in my hand.





Flynn



I continue to call Jaynie. And she continues to not pick up.

“Damn it! Fuck, f*ck, f*ck.” I kick at a stack of wooden planks that I’m supposed to be carrying, stubbing my toe in my fit of anger. “Ow, shit.”

“Get moving, O’Neill,” the supervisor on this side of the work zone yells over to me when he sees me stalling. “You can make calls and get pissed off on your own time, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” I put my cell away and return to hauling material, though I continue to have a very bad feeling.

As the hours pass, my worry reaches epic levels. Quitting time can’t arrive soon enough. But as things always go when you’re in a hurry, the final hour of my shift passes more slowly than all the rest.

Finally it’s five and time to go.

Since the bus runs late most days, I decide not to take a chance. Whipping out my cell, I call Crick and ask for a ride back to Lawrence.

“No problem, kid,” he tells me after I inform him I’m in a hurry to get home. “I was just finishing up with my own work day.”

Five minutes later, Crick picks me up in his work vehicle and we head over to Lawrence.

“I thought you bought yourself a car?” he inquires a few minutes into our ride.

“Yeah, I did.” I smooth back sweaty hair from my forehead. “But I left it for Jaynie today.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

Crick’s not generally nosy, he’s just making conversation.

I then tell him, “She had an appointment this morning over at the community college. Remember how we were telling you she plans to take some classes this fall.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. She wants to help kids, right?” Crick smiles over at me. “I still think that’s a really good thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” I agree.

I’m trying to sound upbeat and in the conversation, but the truth is I’m distracted and worried. I can’t stop running my hands through my hair, pulling at the in-need-of-a-trim ends with every pass.

Crick, glancing over at my fidgety ass, asks, “What has you so worked up, man? Something other than schooling plans going on with your Jaynie?”

“Yeah, there kind of is something.” I admit. “There may be a problem.”

“Talk to me, Flynn.”

Crick is a good friend, and hell, I need to talk to someone. Otherwise, my head might explode.

“It sounds stupid,” I begin, sighing, “but I can’t get a hold of Jaynie. It’s not like her to not pick up. And last I heard from her was when she sent me a text, and that was way back around lunchtime.”

Crick, viewing the situation more sensibly than I can, says, “That doesn’t seem all that long ago. Maybe she got herself busy with some little project or whatnot. You know how women are. Always busy, busy, busy with something.”