The Last Thing She Ever Did(33)

She looked out the window as the blur of nighttime lights came at her. She thought of Carole and David and how they were probably wishing to God they’d never moved to Bend. Liz wondered if the Franklins had played the game of what-if, as she had herself. If they’d run through the morning Charlie went missing and thought of all the ways that it could have been different. The one little change that could have altered what happened . . .

Liz had done it. She knew that she’d do it every day for the rest of her life. Her life. Her suffering. She deserved all of it.

“I think there’s a place we can get off up here,” Owen said.

Liz nodded in her husband’s direction.

The car filled with light as another vehicle approached from behind.

“We’re going to get caught,” she said.

“Shut up. We’re not.”

Owen kept his foot on the gas but eased up a little, allowing the other car to pass.

“We are. Someone will see us,” she said. “Someone will wonder what we’re doing when we get off the highway. No one gets off the highway here. They’ll think we’re in trouble.”

“We are in trouble, Liz,” Owen shot back. “And you’re the cause of it. Shut the hell up. I’m going to cut the lights and slow down. I’m going to take the turn fast, so you’ll need to hold on. No one will see us.”

Liz didn’t say anything. Although she wanted to die, she found herself checking her seat belt to make sure it was secure. Her eyes had flooded again, and the stars over the high desert swirled in a messy mix of light and dark. She looked in the side mirror and made note of a pair of headlights a good mile behind them.

Without a word, Owen switched off the headlights. The dividing line dimmed to a faint yellow band. The RAV4 began to slow.

“Hold on,” he said. “The turn’s right here.” He gripped the wheel and cut sharply to the right onto a rancher’s road. The right tires lifted slightly from the earth and Liz thought that the top-heavy vehicle would roll over.

She didn’t care. She hoped she’d die.

But it didn’t roll.

Without tapping the brakes a single time, Owen let the car shoot down the road. It was paved for the first twenty-five yards; after that, it was paint-mixer bumpy.

“Owen, you need to slow down,” Liz said.

“You need to get a grip,” he said. “I’ve got this. Can’t let anyone see the brake lights, Liz.” The car was slowing. “No one saw us, right?”

Liz thought of the headlights a mile behind them.

“No. I don’t think so.”



The RAV4 rolled to a stop in front of a field of summer-dead bunchgrass framed by a couple of groves of juniper, trees that in the darkness resembled black flames reaching skyward. The desolation of the place hit every mark.

“We’ll hide it over there,” Owen said.

It again.

After making sure the interior lights wouldn’t come on, Owen opened the driver’s door to get out, and the chill of the outside air came at her.

“I need your help. Are you coming?”

Liz was frozen. “What about Carole and David? They won’t know what happened to Charlie. They’ll never know.”

“Don’t be stupid. Look at the fence line here,” he said, indicating the pristine wire-and-wood-post fencing that seemed to run for a mile. “This rancher doesn’t let a single weed grow around those posts. He’s going to find it. He’s going to call it in. David and Carole will think some pervert killed Charlie.”

“They’ll never get over it,” Liz said.

He didn’t look at her. “It was an accident, Liz. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but—”

“We cannot keep talking about this. You need to find a way to deal with it. You’ll need to find a way to deal with Carole and David. You’ll never, ever be able to admit what you did. You’ll never be able to ask for forgiveness.”

Liz didn’t say another word. She got out, moved to the back of the car, and held out her cell phone, casting a faint light downward so he could see. She watched her husband shift Charlie Franklin’s tarp-wrapped body from beneath the old newspapers. The wind caught a few of the pages and carried the sheets of newsprint like kites upward into the dark.

A beat later Owen gently set the body at the base of one of the junipers.

A flash came from her phone that seemed to light up the whole outdoors.

“Holy shit!” he said, utterly blinded. “Did you just take a picture?” As his eyesight returned, he found Liz standing by the car, propping herself up with her hand on the hood.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, fumbling with the phone. “Deleting. God. Sorry.” The wind blew and the tarp rustled.

“What’s the matter with you?” Owen said. “Get in the car.”

“The tarp,” she said, sputtering for breath once they were both inside. “Maybe we shouldn’t leave the tarp.”

“I wore gloves,” he said.

Their eyes met. “I didn’t,” she said.

Owen turned the ignition. “I’m not going to go back and unwrap him. I don’t want to see the mess you—”

“The mess I made,” she said. “I know, Owen. I know.”