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I eye him with suspicion. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I can. Have you ever smashed a stress ball? It’s way better than squeezing it. That thing pops like a watermelon.” He nods to himself. “There wouldn’t be anything left of the gun. The Smash 2000 would flatten it. There’s a tiny chance the bullets might explode, but if you’re willing to take the risk…”
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that.” It’s not cackling over a pit of acid, but it’ll work. I reach under the car next to me and pull out the bag with the gun and the pictures. The night of the bonfire, I stashed it in my SubBug, but I never thought this was how I would get it back. I only wanted it gone in case Monroe made more trouble.
“Put your hands up, Eliza.” Anderson’s voice brings me back to reality. “We’re almost on top of you.”
“Better be careful. She’s got one of my really big guns now.” Nick scrunches his nose up, lowering his voice. “I don’t suppose that was convincing.”
“Not exactly,” I tell him. Nick watches as I peel open the bag holding the gun.
“You know I don’t like those, right?”
“I’m not fond of this one either, but I’m hoping it gets us what I want.” My mouth twists to the side with thought. “I need two of your scarves.” When he hesitates, I shoot him an impatient look. “You’ll get them back, I promise.”
Rolling his eyes, he mutters under his breath, “Why are the pretty ones always crazy?” He unwraps a dark blue flowing scarf from his neck and hands it to me before setting to work on a maroon one.
“Thanks.” I use the fabric to wrap around my hand until it works like a glove. Only then do I touch the weapon. “Okay, now or never, I guess.”
With a quick breath, I pop back to my feet, hands over my head, gun in hand but not as a weapon. Instead, I mean to use it as evidence.
“Hold your fire!” Rhett yells as they take aim. “She’s not armed, not really.”
They don’t lower their weapons, but I note the way Anderson’s finger comes off the trigger.
“Give it up, Eliza.” My oldest stepbrother takes a step toward me. “Hand over the gun and any other evidence you have. We’re taking you in. We’ll sort this out with the police.” His last statement wasn’t meant for me because he shot it at Tucker.
Tucker nods slowly. “He’s right. That’s our best course of action.”
“You’re playing this like I’m guilty and you’re valiant knights wanting to bring me to justice. But you’re operating on one faulty assumption.” I set the gun on the silver plate of the Smash 2000 . “You think I don’t remember anything. But I do. And I know one of you wants the truth to come to light because he’s innocent. And one of you would like nothing more than to watch me press this button,” my finger hovers over the activation switch, “and crush this gun, destroying any evidence that might convict you.”
Tucker’s grip falters on his gun. “What are you doing?”
Anderson shakes his head. “There won’t be much evidence left after all these weeks. If you think this is gonna buy you time, you’re mistaken.”
Like a gopher out of his hole, Nick pops up beside me. “Actually,” his eyes widen as the guns momentarily shift toward him, “most killers make a huge mistake. They wear gloves when they use the gun, but rarely remember while loading the bullets into the clip. There’s a strong chance that the killer left a print. It may not be enough to convict you, but that, and tying the striation on the bullet to the one in the crime, might warrant a much closer look at you as a suspect. All of which would be impossible if your stepsister decides to press the switch.”
I stare at the mechanic with pure consternation. “How on earth did you know any of that?”
He shrugs as he goes to work calibrating the machine and the second half of our plan. “I’m a true crime podcast junkie. I love listening to it while I restore these junkers.”
“Enough!” Anderson screams. “Eliza, stop playing around and surrender. It’s over.”
“No,” I smile a little, “it’s almost over.” My finger presses the button, releasing the mechanisms that jar the machine to life. At the same instant, Anderson leaps forward, diving to rescue the gun from the Smash 2000, dropping his own gun in the mad dash. The metal plate lives true to the name, not falling, but launching downward to crush the gun in the blink of an eye. Metal clanks metal as the two silver plates collide.
The shop falls silent. Anderson’s head drops to his chest in defeat, but I know who the killer was. Tucker made no move to stop me from destroying the evidence. A wicked smile twists over his features.
“You made it so easy, Eliza.” He shakes his head. “It’s almost not fun anymore. Playing with your mind all this time, it’s been a treat, but now, what’s the point?”
Anderson shifts, stiffening. “Tucker, what’s going on? What’d you do?”
I saw it in my mind, but I had to know for sure if I could trust my memories. “It started with my accident on the horse. But it wasn’t an accident, was it? You did something to make him toss me.”
“Pellet gun from the bushes. Right in the stifle. Not enough to leave a mark. Just enough to startle your already moody gelding.” Tucker’s eyebrow twitches at the memory. “I never thought you’d come off that easily, but oh, how you flew.”
“The doctor prescribed me medication for the pain, but it was easy enough for you to swap out the pills, wasn’t it? You have access to all sorts of psychotropics. Finding a similar pill with the desired outcome wouldn’t be hard for you.”
“It was like painting a picture, a true work of art helping you disassociate from yourself.”
