Wade was murdered?
Shit, that’s fucked up.
Wade was a dick, but he didn’t deserve to be killed. I’m assuming this, of course. I hadn’t seen the guy since high school. Maybe the high school bully became a good guy who didn’t deserve death. Or maybe he became an even bigger prick after high school, and someone got tired of his shit and did him in.
My thoughts go to Eden. I know this news will upset her.
Maybe I should text her, see if she’s okay.
She’s your parole officer, dipshit. Not your girlfriend.
But she used to be my friend. Kind of.
Grabbing my tool belt, I climb out of my truck and press the button on the fob to lock it.
I’m still debating over whether I should text Eden or not as I walk over to the site when an eerie feeling passes through me. Like someone is watching me.
Stopping, I look over my shoulder. No one’s there.
I turn on the spot, doing a full three-sixty, checking my surroundings.
Definitely no one here.
I’m about ten feet from the logs that I piled up yesterday when I get another eerie feeling. But this one is different. This isn’t the sensation of being watched. This is the sense that something is very fucking wrong here. I can feel it in the air, like ice-cold fingertips trailing over my skin.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Something tells me to keep walking toward the pile of logs.
I’m a few feet away when the smell hits my nose.
The smell of death. I’ve only smelled it once before. The night I killed that guy, but it’s not a smell you ever forget.
My heart starts to pump in my chest as I put one foot forward, stepping toward the unknown but knowing that whatever I see in these next few seconds isn’t gonna be good.
I step around the pile of logs and see a guy sitting, propped against them.
And one of the axes that I was using yesterday to chop those logs is stuck in his chest.
Fuck.
I stumble back a step, burying my nose into the crook of my elbow.
I know that guy. I went to high school with him. Aaron Goodman. He was Wade Evans’s best friend.
My first thought is that I don’t believe in coincidences. Two best friends from high school, dead within days of each other.
My next thought is that a convicted felon—me—finding a dead body, is not good. Not fucking good at all.
For a moment, I consider walking away, climbing back in my truck, and letting some other fucker find him.
But I can’t. It’s not who I am.
So, I reach in my pocket, grab my cell, and dial 911.
“Thanks for the ride home,” I say to Eden as she pulls up outside my house.
She was waiting for me when I left the police station after giving my statement. I guess the cops notified her that I was there, with her being my parole officer and all.
My truck is still up at the site because I was taken in the cop car to the station. Can’t say I loved being in the back of a police car again.
More like fucking hated it. But they insisted I go with them. Said the whole area was a crime scene and I couldn’t move my truck until it was cleared by forensics.
So, now, I’m without my truck and unable to work until the police are done with the area.
Which is nothing compared to the ax in the chest that poor fucker Aaron Goodman got.
I know I’m sitting on their list of suspects just because I found the body and I have a prior for second-degree murder, which I only just got out of prison for.
A convicted felon finding a dead body is pretty convenient—those were the detective’s words, not mine.
That, and I previously knew the deceased—again, the detective’s words.
I probably should have gotten my lawyer while they were taking my statement, but it hadn’t helped me last time, and I didn’t want to give them any more reasons to think I was guilty.
I just wanted out of that place. It brought back too many bad memories.
“No problem at all,” she says softly. “I just can’t believe Aaron was murdered. First, Wade, and now, Aaron … it’s unbelievable.” Her eyes meet mine. “How are you doing? After finding Aaron, I can’t imagine …”
“I’m fine,” I say gruffly. “It’s not my first time, dealing with a dead body.”
Her silence speaks volumes. She knows my case—well, she knows what my file says, not what actually happened that night.
It starts to rain. Heavy raindrops pelt the windshield.
I curl my hand around the door handle, ready to open it, when her quiet words stop me.
“What happened? That night when you killed that man?”
My body stiffens, and I slowly turn my face to look at her.