Page 82 of Trigger Happy

I give him a thumbs-up like Sabrina and I are talking about the best ways to kill someone—you know, casual dinner conversation.

“And there’s bleach,” she continues on the phone. “Lots of it.”

“Are you all right?” I ask. Important things first.

“I’m fine, but the door’s locked from the inside,” she says. “I need you to come get me before my nose hair disintegrates from the smell.”

“I figured you’d be used to that kind of thing by now.” I fake a laugh, keeping my tone light for my audience’s benefit, even though my heart is pounding, imagining her trapped alone down there.

“Please, Lawton,” she says, and I think her voice cracks.

That please gets to me more than anything.

I don’t like the idea of her without backup. I was three years older than Walker, so it didn’t matter if he called me at two a.m. saying he needed bulk paper towels to clean up a bloodstain, I was breaking into Costco.

True story.

I like being the guy people call for help. It’s why I got into this business. Taking out criminals gave me a hero complex. It makes me feel like I matter, so I’m already grabbing the paddle. I don’t care if we fuck this up and the client gets pissed. All that matters is getting her out safe. She comes first before the job.

“All right, don’t move,” I say, my boots crunching on pebbles. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

40Lawton

I told Arch I forgot it was our anniversary, so we have to get back.

It’s not my best excuse, but it’s all I got. This is why I need Sabrina and all her planning. I can’t tell if he believes me, so I spend the drive back to the ranch trying to figure out what to do with him. It’s better than thinking about that shake in Sabrina’s voice. When I do, I feel like a useless sack of pig feed. Why does the speed limit have to be forty-five on a goddamn highway?

I need a distraction.

I squint at Arch’s wavy brown hair, trying to figure out if he’s wearing a toupee, but I’m pretty sure his hair’s just naturally thick.

“How do you feel about wigs?” I say, figuring I should try to get something out of him while we’re alone. That’s what Sabrina would do.

He stares out the dirty windshield. “Huh?”

“Wigs,” I repeat, watching his reaction. “You like ’em? Hate ’em?”

“Wigs?” he says like he’s trying to pronounce something in another language.

“Yeah, you know, they’re made of hair. Great for undercover cops or drag shows.”

“They’re fine, I guess.”

“How about toupees?”

He looks at me like I’m the one scalping dead women and hoarding wigs. “Gotta be honest, man, I don’t really have any strong opinions about them.”

I’m trying to figure out what to do with him when we pull up to the ranch.

“I’ll leave you two alone for a while,” he says with a wink. Anniversary for the win. “Got some things I need to take care of anyway.”

Sure he does. I bet those “things” involve digging another grave, but I’m not about to put up a fight when it makes getting Sabrina out easier. I’ve got his location, so if he goes out to the woods, I’ll know.

I give him a two-fingered salute. “Godspeed, my man.”

“I should be saying that to you.” He slaps the truck door before reversing down the driveway.

Once his car is a speck on the gravel, I start sprinting through the woods, avoiding the spots that are wide and open in case anyone sees me.