*69 Read Online Free

climbed
back in, put the car into gear.
    The acceleration of the hearty V8 pushed
Laura into the base of the backseat.
    Martin chuckled.
    Laura held the phone up behind Martin’s seat,
glimpsed a single bar on the screen.
    “Laura?”
    She froze.
    “You have to tell me what that skin cream
is,” he said. “Whole car smells like it.”
    She didn’t move.
    “Come on, I know you’re back there. Saw you
when I got out of the car a minute ago. Now sit the fuck up or
you’re gonna make me angry.”
    That lonely bar on the cell phone screen had
vanished.
    Laura pushed up off the floorboard, climbed
into the seat.
    Martin watched her in the rearview
mirror.
    They were driving through the north end of
the subdivision, the porchlights as distant as stars in the heavy,
midnight fog.
    Martin turned onto their street.
    “What’d you do to my husband?” Laura asked,
fighting tears.
    The phone in her lap boasted two strong bars
and very little battery.
    She reached down, watched 9-1-1 appear on the
screen as her fingers struggled to find the right buttons in the
dark.
    “What were you doing in my cruiser?” Martin
asked. “Looking for this?”
    He held up his second cell phone as Laura
pressed talk.
    Through the tiny speaker, the phone in her
hand began to ring.
    She said, “When did you know?”
    “When you played the message.”
    Martin turned into their driveway.
    “I’m really sorry about all this, Laura. Just
an honest to God…” He stomped the brake so hard that even at that
slow rate of speed, Laura slammed into the partition. “You fucking
bitch.”
    Faintly: “Nine-one-one. Where is your
emergency?”
    Martin jammed the shifter into park, threw
open the door.
    “Oh, God, send someone to—”
    The rear passenger door swung open and Martin
dove in, Laura crushed under his weight, his hand cupped over her
mouth, the phone ripped from her hand, and then the side of her
head exploded, her vision jogged into a darkness that sparked with
burning stars.
     
    Laura thought, I’m conscious.
    She felt the side of her face resting against
the floor, and when she tried to raise her head, her skin
momentarily adhered to the hardwood.
    She sat up, opened her eyes, temples
throbbing.
    Four feet away, slumped on the floor beside
the sink, Tim lay staring at her, eyes open and vacant, a black
slit yawning under his chin.
    And though she sat in her own kitchen in a
pool of her husband’s blood, legs burgundy below the knees, hair
matted into bloody dreads like some demon Rasta, she didn’t scream
or even cry.
    Her yellow teddy was slathered in gore, her
left breast dangling out of a tear across the front. She held a
knife in her left hand that she’d used to skin a kiwi for breakfast
a thousand years ago, Tim’s .357 in her right.
    The front door burst open, footsteps pounding
through the foyer, male voices yelling, “Mooresville Police!”
    She craned her neck, saw two cops arrive in
the archway between the kitchen and the living room—a short man
with a shaved head and her brother-in-law, wide-eyed and
crying.
    The short man said, “Go in the other room,
Martin. You don’t need to see—”
    “She’s got a gun!”
    “Shit. Drop that right now!”
    “Come on, Laura, please!”
    “You wanna get shot?”
    They were pointing their Glocks at her,
screaming for her to drop the gun, and she was trying, but it had
been super-glued to her hand, and she attempted to sling it across
the room to break the bond, but even her pointer finger had been
cemented to the trigger, the barrel of the .357 making a fleeting
alignment on the policemen, and they would write in their reports
that she was making her move, that deadly force had been the only
option, both lawmen firing—Officer McCullar twice, Officer West
four times—and when the judgment fell, both men were deemed to have
acted reasonably, the hearts of the brass going out to West in
particular, the man having found his little brother murdered and
been forced to shoot