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Dixon complies, though there’s an amused look on his face and a challenge in his eyes — part of me believes he’s going to test me so I can fulfill that death wish he’s carried with him ever since my brother’s death.
I hope he doesn’t.
Dixon reluctantly secures the handcuffs around his wrist and the radiator pipe. There's a clanking of metal on metal as he tests the restraint.
"Satisfied?”
I don't respond, simply nod once before turning on my heel and heading to the kitchen. My hands tremble slightly as I open the cabinet and grab the bottle of tequila sitting on the shelf. I need a drink. Or ten. Cradling the bottle against my chest, I make my way down the hallway to my bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind me. Finally alone, the facade I've been projecting – the strong, unflappable persona of a woman on a mission — crumbles. My back slides down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, legs splayed out in front of me. The tequila bottle rolls away, forgotten for the moment, as the dam breaks. Harsh, ragged sobs rip from my throat as hot tears stream down my face.
All the sadness over Lucas's death that I’ve been fighting to suppress comes crashing down on me in waves. How did it come to this? How fucked up is it I’m working with the man I believe killed my brother just to get answers?
I pull my knees up, hugging them tightly as I bury my face in them.
My legs are soon soaked with my tears.
A physical pain grips my chest; Lucas, with his bright smile, his stupid jokes, his hair that always — no matter what he did — was messy, like he’d just spent hours tearing down the highway without a helmet… in a hurricane.
He deserved so much better than what he got.
And tonight, he was supposed to get justice.
“Lucas, please. I need your help.”
I take a long pull straight from the bottle of tequila, relishing the burn as the liquid slides down my throat.
“What do I do?”
Another gulp that ends with me sputtering and nearly choking on the tequila as a distinct memory of Lucas — him, teaching me how to shoot, speaking in that gentle, guiding voice he always had when he was really serious about me learning something — surfaces and I swear I can feel him right beside me.
“I miss you so much.”
I drink some more. A lot more.
Until my lips are tingling and my fingers are numb.
If I were a customer at work, I’d have cut myself off a long time ago. But I’m by myself and have never felt more alone than I do in this moment, when everything I thought I knew has just been upended and left for dead on my kitchen floor.
As much as I drink, I cry.
Then I hear Dixon's voice calling out from the living room.
"Alexandra? I can hear you crying in there. Are you okay?"
I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand.
"Like you care," I call out, taking another swig from the bottle.
"Look, I know this is a lot to process, but we need to focus on the task at hand. That body in your kitchen isn't going to dispose of itself."
His words, though matter-of-fact, feel like a slap in the face.
How can he be so cold?
Oh, that’s right, because he’s the murdering asshole who probably killed my brother.
"Just give me a minute, OK? I'm trying to wrap my head around all of this."
"We don't have time to fuck around and throw tantrums," Dixon says. "The longer we wait, the harder it's going to be to deal with the body. There are more chances to be discovered, not to mention the fact that every moment that passes, that body is getting riper. At about twenty-four hours, things get real. Trust me, you don't want to experience the bloat stage. It gets really gross, really fast."
