Murderfunding, p.24
#MurderFunding, page 24
Becca wouldn’t allow herself to hope that she was right, but she also couldn’t face the idea that she wasn’t. There was nothing she could do about it anyway. She had to think about herself, and Rafa.
Becca called Rafa’s cell from Coop’s house before they left. It was a struggle to keep from bursting into tears the second he answered the phone. “Hey, buddy,” she said, desperately trying to keep her voice from cracking. “How are you?”
“Bored,” he said. “Aunt Tabitha doesn’t have any video games.”
Rafa’s ten-year-old priorities were refreshing. He clearly had no idea what was going on.
“You okay, though?”
“BORED,” he repeated, as if she hadn’t heard him.
Becca took a silent breath to steady herself before her next question. “Can I talk to Mom?”
“Mom had to fly to LA for work or something. Didn’t she tell you?”
Tears spilled from Becca’s eyes and down her cheeks. “Right. Yeah, of course. I forgot.”
“She was supposed to be back by now. I wish I was at Keyes Peak with you. At least there’s something to do up there.”
Becca wanted to stop in Arizona and hug her brother, but bringing him into this would be dangerous. And right now, she had to keep him safe at all costs. “You be nice to Aunt Tabitha, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“And hey, I lost my phone, so you can call me on this number if you need me.”
“Okay.” Rafa paused. “I miss you, Becks.”
“I miss you too, buddy. But I will see you soon. Everything is going to be okay.”
The instant Becca ended the call, she sobbed uncontrollably as she leaned against Coop’s kitchen counter. Everything is going to be okay? No, everything was not okay. Would never be okay again. And what would happen to Rafa if she didn’t survive this? Would Tabitha take care of him? Or would he end up in a foster home? Or worse? Whatever “worse” was.
Becca felt an arm around her, pulling her into someone’s body. “He’s okay,” Stef said. “He’s going to be okay.”
Becca looked up, Stef’s face inches from hers. The anger she’d felt after their argument in the bathroom had vanished. “But what—”
“Don’t.” Stef wiped a stream of tears from Becca’s cheek with her thumb. “We have to believe it’ll be okay.” Then she pulled Becca close and rested her head on Becca’s shoulder.
They stood there, clinging to each other, until Coop cleared his throat from the doorway and told them it was time to get on the road. Stef and Becca had left so much unsaid, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. They’d gone from enemies to business partners to friends. And now to something deeper.
Dee, Nyles, Griselda, and their bodyguard wished them luck before piling back into their SUV. Dee had wanted to accompany them to Michigan, but Nyles and the bodyguard had strictly forbidden it. The only people more sought than Becca and her friends at that moment were the Death Row Breakfast Club. They’d be more of a hindrance than a help, and so Dee had offered Becca a silent smile of concern through the open SUV window as the bodyguard escorted them back to LA.
They drove in shifts, starting with Coop and Fiona while Becca and Stef slept on the two bench seats in the back. A description of Coop’s ride hadn’t appeared in any of the reports about them, and with Griselda planting a false lead with the police, placing the group somewhere north of Los Angeles, they hoped that they’d be able to reach Marquette unrecognized.
Even still, they were hardly unnoticeable. Their faces might not have been all over the news like Dee’s, Nyles’s, and Griselda’s, but their descriptions were. One male, Caucasian, six feet to six feet one, dressed in cargo pants and T-shirt embroidered with the name “John.” One female, Caucasian, medium build and height, last seen wearing a sequined minidress. One female, Latina, five feet six to five feet seven, also last seen in sequined minidress. One female, African American, slight build, five feet five, wearing white dress stained with red dye.
The costumes had been ditched at least, and Becca was pretty sure she’d live happily ever after if she never had to wear sequins again. She, Stef, and Fiona had gone through Coop’s sister’s closet, looking for something that fit while trying to ignore the fact that they were wearing the clothes of a dead sociopath. Stef and Fiona had no problem finding leggings, shirts, and sweaters—they must have been almost perfect matches for Kimber’s height and size—but Becca had more difficulty. Her boobs would not fit into most of Kimber’s tops, and her hips were too wide for any of her pants, so she had to settle for a heinous midi peasant dress and button-up cardigan that made her look like she’d pulled clothes blindly from her grandma’s closet. She just kept reminding herself that it was only temporary, and she’d be able to wear her own stuff in just a couple of days.
Even with a change of wardrobe, as a precaution, only two of them ever sat up in the car at any given time, because four young people in a white SUV was probably going to cause a double take. They’d stopped at two or three different gas stations cycling through bathroom breaks, just to make sure no one put the four of them together and called the authorities.
They drove straight through, with night turning to day and then night again. Ears popped through the Rocky Mountains, and snow from Cedar Rapids through Wisconsin slowed them down, but as they climbed north out of Green Bay, Becca felt a coldness come over her. She was driving home to dig up her mom’s coffin, unsure whether or not she and her brother were currently orphans, and the only bright point in all of this was that Rafa was safely two thousand miles away in Arizona.
“It feels weird to be back in Michigan,” Stef said from the backseat. The sun was up as they crossed the border into Becca’s home state. Coop and Fiona were chatting in the front seat as they’d done constantly through their driving shifts, while Becca and Stef napped in the back.
“I can’t believe we’ve only been gone five days.”
Stef’s head popped up over the seat back. “Really?”
Becca grinned. “We left on the sixteenth, remember?”
“Damn.”
“Ladies!” Coop called from the front. “I can see you.”
Stef rolled her eyes, then heaved herself over the back of her seat and sat on the floor in front of Becca, knees hugged to her chin. Becca remembered their kiss in the Juggernaut, and their fight at Coop’s house. Which version of Stef would she get now?
“I know I’ve been kind of a bitch,” Stef started.
“Not a bitch,” Becca said quickly, which was true. Difficult? Yes. But not horrible.
“There’s just a lot going on,” she said, resting her cheek against her knee.
“You don’t say.”
“I will,” Stef said, ignoring Becca’s snark. “Someday.” She glanced up, smiling at Becca, then went back over to her bench seat.
Two hours later, they pulled into Becca’s driveway.
“BECCA!!!” Jackie ran down the front walkway as soon as the back door opened, and threw her arms around Becca, hugging her close. “I’m so glad you’re not dead.”
She laughed dryly. “Me too.”
Mateo followed close behind his girlfriend. “When we didn’t hear from you…”
“I kinda freaked out,” Jackie said. Then she squeezed Becca again. “Your mom would have killed me if anything happened to you.”
At the mention of Rita, Becca’s stomach sank and her voice caught in her throat. Neither of which Mateo missed.
“What’s wrong?”
Becca shook her head, forcing down the emotion. It wouldn’t do her any good right now. “Nothing. Um, you guys should meet my friends. This is Coop, Fiona…” She paused, feeling her face grow warm. “And Stef.”
She wasn’t exactly sure what kind of reception Jackie would give this group of strangers from Los Angeles, but she tackled Stef in a bear hug.
“Thank you for keeping Becca safe,” Jackie said, practically in tears.
“Calm down, Meryl Streep,” Becca said. “Your drama is showing.”
Jackie grinned sheepishly as she released Stef, who, far from looking discomfited, was smiling.
Becca shivered. “We should get inside.”
They bundled into the house, which Jackie and Mateo had prepped for their arrival. The heat was on, fighting off the chill of late afternoon, and there were cartons of Chinese food on the counter, with sodas in the fridge. “Bless you guys,” Becca said, heaving a sigh of relief. Despite the reason for her return, it felt good to be home. “Did you get the other stuff too?”
Mateo nodded. “I borrowed three shovels from my dad. Plus there’s one in your garage.
“Awesome.”
“You going to tell us why you need them?”
Becca’s eyes faltered under his gaze. As much as she hated keeping secrets from her friends, it was for their own safety that they not know what was going on. Information kept getting people killed, so the less Jackie and Mateo knew, the safer they’d be.
“Look,” Becca said, taking each of them by the hand. “I hope I can tell you all about this when it’s over. But you have to trust me when I say you don’t want to know.”
“Becks,” Jackie began, “we want to help.”
Becca smiled. “I’m worried that something bad might happen to you.”
“But—”
“Jackie!” Becca never got sharp with her friend, and the inflection shut down Jackie’s protest immediately. “Please. Promise me you’ll go home, watch a movie, and forget about all of this until tomorrow.”
Jackie’s face fell. “Now?”
Becca nodded. “Please.” She didn’t know if there was a proper facial expression for I don’t want you to die, but she hoped the combination of desperation and sincerity she was feeling was close enough.
“Fine,” Jackie said after a suitably dramatic pause. “But you’ll text me in the morning, right? When you’re done with whatever it is?”
“As soon as I can,” Becca said. Whenever that is.
Becca waited on the front porch until Mateo’s car disappeared around the corner before she went back inside. Coop and Fiona had already dug into the Chinese food, but Stef waited for her in the living room, perched on the edge of the sofa.
“We go tonight?” she said as Becca closed the door.
“After nine,” Becca said. “This town will be half-asleep by then.”
Stef’s eyes strayed to Coop and Fiona, who were laughing in the kitchen. “So we have a couple of hours.”
Something deep inside Becca shifted. She’d felt it before, several times, but always when she was alone. This time her breath shortened as Stef slowly approached, eyes locked onto hers. Stef took her hand, stroking the back of it with her thumb. Before Becca could even think about what she was doing, she slipped her hand around Stef’s back, pulled their bodies together, and kissed her.
It was a hard kiss, not soft or gentle like the girl-on-girl kisses Becca had seen on the Internet. Nor was it tentative like their kiss had been in the Juggernaut. Becca had no more experience at kissing now than she had then, but it didn’t matter. Any worries she might have had about Stef being more experienced were banished from her mind the moment she felt Stef’s hands on the sides of her face as they pressed their lips together.
If Coop and Fiona saw anything, they remained discreetly quiet, but again, the thought had hardly flitted across Becca’s mind before it was gone. Stef broke away from the kiss, her hands still cradling Becca’s face, eyes searching. Becca wasn’t sure what Stef was searching for, had never been sure exactly what she’d wanted, either from Becca or from the trip to Los Angeles, but in that moment, Becca knew that she wanted Stef. And she was pretty sure Stef felt the same way.
“Your room…” Stef began breathlessly.
“End of the hall.”
They stood unmoving, frozen in the living room until Stef’s right hand strayed from Becca’s face, trailing down the side of her neck to her chest, then down to the waistband of the ugly peasant skirt. Becca’s body quivered. The timing was horrible, the weight of their situation heavy upon them, but Becca didn’t care. She took Stef’s hand, turned toward the hallway, and led Stef to her room.
IT FELT GOOD TO pull her own clothes out of her own closet, even if Becca wasn’t entirely sure what to put on.
“What’s the appropriate outfit to wear to your mom’s disinterment?”
“Considering how cold it is outside,” Stef replied, pulling her shirt on over her head, “I’d say a coat.”
Becca winked at her. “That’s why I like you. Always thinking.”
It was a surreal moment, the nightmare of the last few days juxtaposed upon the utter bliss she felt in Stef’s arms, and though she’d wanted them to snuggle under the covers together until the sun came up, Becca realized that wasn’t an option. They were being hunted, the danger of their situation was ever present, and until they got their hands on the evidence they could use as leverage, the nightmare would never be over.
So Becca fought off the desire to put on a cute skater skirt and a booby top for her new girlfriend, and went with the more practical option of jeans, thermal shirt, sweater, boots, and a thick woolen hat. It definitely wasn’t the flirty choice, but it would stave off hypothermia.
Coop was watching the news in the living room, the volume muted, while Fiona slept beside him, her head resting on his leg. He toggled back and forth between all three of the major news networks, which ran a continuous feed of talking heads discussing the latest developments at the impeachment trial, while chyrons at the bottom updated the events in Los Angeles.
“Anything new?” Becca asked, her voice low so as not to wake Fiona.
“Still nothing about Victor Merchant or the Russians,” Coop said, flipping the channel again. “I don’t know how he’s managed to keep that under wraps.”
“Money,” Stef said. “Power. The usual suspects.”
Becca opened the hall closet and pulled out a variety of winter coats. “What about us?”
“Thanks to Griselda, they still think we’re in California,” Coop said. He switched off the TV and edged aside, easing Fiona’s head onto a cushion.
Fiona started. “Is it happening?” She pushed herself into a sitting position. “Are we going?”
“You know,” Becca said, busying herself with a tangle of gloves, scarves, and hats, “you don’t have to come with us.”
“Huh?”
“You and Stef.” Becca wouldn’t look at either of them. “You can get out now. In case there’s trouble.”
Stef folded her arms across her chest. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
She wasn’t entirely sure, but suddenly, all Becca wanted to do was keep Stef safe, and staying home while Becca and Coop went to dig up a coffin seemed like a logical step toward that goal. “My mom was Molly Mauler. Coop’s dad was The Postman. We’re the only two that are stuck in this mess. You two get out now and we’ll…we’ll tell the cops or the press or whatever that it was just the two of us all along.”
Fiona laughed. “Yeah, well, the cops already know we’re involved.”
“Not really,” Coop added. “Not if we tell them—”
“Save it,” Fiona said. She marched across to the chair where Becca had laid the coats and picked out the thickest, fluffiest one. “My aunt’s best friend’s hairdresser’s neighbor might not be Molly Mauler, but I’m still a part of this bullshit whether you like it or not.”
“Me too,” Stef said.
Fiona pulled on the coat, then wound a scarf around her neck. “The way I see it, we won’t be safe until we get what’s in that coffin. And Stef and I can’t trust the two of you not to fuck that up.”
Now it was Stef’s turn to laugh. “Truth.”
“So let’s get some goddamn shovels and start digging.” Fiona planted her hands on her hips. “That grave isn’t going to open itself.”
Disinterring a body was a hell of a lot harder than it looked.
In the movies, it was the scene you cut to when the hole in the ground was already four feet deep, piles of fluffy brown dirt amassed on one side, while two people stood inside, heaving out shovelfuls. The reality was that in late December, the ground in northern Michigan was half-frozen at ten o’clock, even on a relatively warm thirty-five-degree night, and getting through the first foot of dirt at Ruth’s grave site took almost an hour.
The good news was that they had seven more hours until sunrise. The bad news was that the temperature was dropping by the minute, and though the dirt deeper down wasn’t as hard as the stuff near the surface, the colder it got, the harder their bodies had to work for each inch, and two hours in, they were dirty, sweat-drenched, and exhausted.
Like with the cross-country drive, they worked in shifts, one pair resting while the other dug. Unlike the cross-country drive, they worked in total silence. Becca wasn’t sure if it was the ambiance of the cemetery, the fear of getting caught, or the personal demons they each wrestled with that contributed most to the unspoken agreement to stay quiet, but if everyone else’s brain was working like hers, it was mostly the latter. The deeper they dug, the closer she was to finality: the reality that her moms were both dead, her life forever altered, and the gripping, chronic fear that they’d fail. What would happen then? A president who should be in jail would probably not only avoid a prison sentence, but retain his office. Russian government agents and their collaborator would never be brought to justice for their killings. And yet another band of Painiacs would not only feel justified in their acts but, if Victor got his way, would continue the Painiac legacy of terror and death in Russia, as the newest state-sponsored program of capital punishment.
Just the fate of democracy and the moral future of the Western world on their shoulders. No pressure.
So she dug. Her coat and hat discarded, her sweater and jeans caked with dirt, Becca drove the spade into the ground with her foot, then crouched to heave its contents out of the deepening hole. Again. And again. And again.
