Page 124 of Gone Tonight
As for George and June, they would never in a million years believe an escaped convict sat in their apartment drinking champagne. Even if they saw a TV clip with James’s photo, their conscious minds would override that instinctual snap of recognition, reminding them James is my cousin. Their polite, socially groomed brains would create acceptable explanations. Lots of people look alike, they’d tell each other.They’d decide they could be misremembering James’s features—what with the champagne and my surprise, there was a lot going on during our brief visit.
Our minds do this all the time. They talk us out of things we don’t want to know.
Still, it would be better if James’s body was never found.
I’ve been thinking through the problem, and I believe burying it in a remote location is the solution. It will be safe to keep James’s body in our trunk tonight.
Before I know it, we’re turning in to the parking lot of our apartment building.
I’ve been so lost in thought I don’t even remember driving here.
I cut the engine.
There’s one more thing I need to do before we go inside. I unbuckle my seat belt and twist to face my mother. I think of how furious and bewildered and scared I’ve been and say, “Everything you did—I still don’t understand it.”
Then I release those emotions and allow myself to remember the bone-deep fear and rage I felt when I saw James atop her limp body and thought I might have gotten there too late. “But I will always love you.”
She exhales and closes her eyes.
Then she opens them and tells me she loves me, too.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOURRUTH
I lie in bed, feeling strangely immobile.
Catherine has diagnosed me with a mild concussion, which may account for the condition I’m in. I’m not experiencing any pain, though. I don’t feel much of anything. I’m suspended in an eerie, detached state.
James is dead.
Catherine killed him.
These two staggering facts overload my brain. It feels like every time I try to comprehend them, my mind short-circuits and brings me back to the safety of numbness.
Catherine is behaving the opposite way. She seems acutely focused and energetic. She has even taken over the planning necessary to keep us safe, seamlessly stepping into the role I held for so long.
She knocks on my door, then opens it without waiting for me to invite her in.
“I found a good place to bury him.” She walks over to my bed and shows me a map on her phone. “We’ll need to drive to West Virginia tomorrow. We should leave as early as we can. It’ll take us all day.”
She has everything planned, down to the shovels we’ll buy at Home Depot with cash, the old sheet we’ll need to drag James through the woods, and the gloves we’ll wear to prevent any transfer of DNA.
She sets two white pills down on my nightstand next to a glass of water. “Here’s some more Tylenol. You can take it now. Do you need another ice pack?”
“I’m fine. I’m going to try to sleep.”
“I’ll wake you up in a few hours. Standard concussion protocol.”
I’m glad she warned me. I would not want to wake up abruptly and see a figure looming over me in the night.
Catherine turns out the light, plunging my room into darkness, then closes my door.
I don’t believe in ghosts.
But as I lie there, my body feeling boneless and weak, I swear I sense a vapory presence.
It’s my imagination, I tell myself.
Or maybe it’s my conscience.
