Where One Goes(52)

“What’s wrong, Charlotte?” I ask. Why is she freaking out?

“I’m thinking!” she snaps.

“Is Ike here?” Sniper asks as his eyes dart around the room.

“Yes,” she answers as she moves toward the bed, grabbing her bag. “I’ve got problems, Sniper.”

“Okay,” he says, stepping inside the room and shutting the door behind him. “What’s going on?”

“Have you seen those clips on the news about the Purcell girl? That missing UVA student and how they found her body?”

His brows rise in thought. “I think I heard about it.” He shrugs.

“Well . . . I’m the one that sent in the anonymous letter telling the detective where to find her body.” We’re all silent for a moment until she adds, “Casey showed me where her body was.”

“You didn’t kill her, so what’s the problem?” Sniper asks.

“How am I supposed to explain I found a corpse under a bridge? They’ll never believe I can talk to the dead.”

He bites his lip and nods. “No, most likely they won’t. What does Ike say?”

Charlotte looks to me, and I use both hands to scratch the back of my head roughly as I think. “Tell the truth, Charlotte,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes.

Looking back to Sniper, she asks, “Who messed up my truck?”

“I have a pretty good guess,” I remark.

“Probably that twat, Misty,” Sniper answers and Charlotte’s shoulders slouch.

“I guess we better go get this over with,” she sighs and pulls her backpack on her shoulders.

“It’ll be okay, Charlotte,” I promise her. “Don’t worry.”

On the drive to the bar, Sniper tries to take her mind off things, mostly telling embarrassing stories about me. “You know, when we were in basic training, all the guys had to share a bathroom. There weren’t any stalls or doors or anything, so we were all out in the open in front of everyone.”

“Is that so?” she asks dismally, her mind obviously remaining fixed on what’s ahead.

“Yeah, so we’re men, right? Men need . . . to release, if you know what I mean,” Sniper continues and Charlotte turns her head toward him.

“Oh, he is such an *,” I say, as I clench my eyes closed, knowing exactly what he’s going to tell her.

“Ike just called you an *. My curiosity is officially piqued.” Charlotte grins and Sniper’s body shakes as he works to keep his laughter in control. The bastard hasn’t even finished the story, and he’s already in stitches.

“Well, sharing a room and bathroom with sixty dudes doesn’t exactly give you the privacy to jerk it,” Sniper explains.

“So you went six weeks without whacking off?” Charlotte asks.

“Kill me now,” I say.

“You’re already dead, Ike,” Charlotte points out.

Sniper laughs, beating the side of his fist against the steering wheel. He’s enjoying this way too much. “It’ll cheer her up, Ike. Don’t be such a wanker.”

“Keep going. I’m on the edge of my seat over here,” Charlotte encourages Sniper.

“Well, Ike decides to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom.” Sniper uses his fingers to make quotations when he says, use the bathroom. “There was this guy in our unit, Williams . . . total sod. He was really good at ragging on people about shit. Of course, when Ike made his little bathroom break, Williams went in after him and caught him spanking it. He woke us all up laughing so hard.”

Charlotte turns to me, grinning from ear to ear. “You got caught whacking off in the middle of the night?”

“Yes,” I admit grumpily. Not exactly a story you want a girl you’re crazy about to hear.

“Thanks for that, Sniper,” I say, even though he can’t hear me.

“He says thanks,” Charlotte tells him as she chuckles at my expense.

“No problem, Spanky,” Sniper replies. “That was his nickname for the remainder of basic training.”

“Spanky?” Charlotte asks as she smiles brightly and shakes her head. Sniper just embarrassed the f*ck out of me, but it worked. He relaxed her a little bit, but now we’re pulling into Ike and George’s parking lot, and her smile fades rapidly.

“It’ll be okay,” I assure her again.

She nods a few times as she stares at her truck. A police officer is standing near the passenger side looking inside, but not touching anything. When George sees Sniper’s truck pull in and park, he comes straight to the passenger door where Charlotte is and opens it.

“Hey,” he says, simply. The swelling of his lip and eye is much better, but there’s still a nasty pink and purple hue surrounding it. Reaching out his hand for Charlotte, he helps her out of the truck, and she smiles faintly in gratitude.

“When I got here this morning the windshield and driver’s side window was busted out. I didn’t touch it, but when I looked inside, it looked like maybe they went through your glove box.” George’s hand finds the small of her back and he leads her gently toward the police officer. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I remain standing near Sniper’s truck. Sniper stands about four feet from me, unbeknownst to him.