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What if he insisted? Or tried to take me in for questioning? Or retaliated because I wouldn’t sleep with him?
What if he’s not even a cop?
The sudden doubt planted a seed. Had I ever seen Brayden’s badge? Nope. My dumb ass had never once asked to see one because I’d assumed he was telling the truth. After all, why else would he have been waiting for me to wake up that first time in the hospital? Yet not once had he asked me to go down to the station, nor had he ever taken a written statement. Because wasn’t I supposed to sign confessions or accusations?
He’s a fake!Something I might be able to verify online.
Made me wonder what he got out of it, though. Probably one of those dudes who got off on being in a position of power over women. What if the Mahoney thing was part of his schtick? A shitty thing to do. Even shittier? I’d fallen for the act.
No more. I’d cut him out of my life, and if he harassed me, I’d press charges. And if he accused me of killing, well, I’d flip those tables and accuse right back.
Problem one solved.
Next one: Mahoney. Ghost or figment of my mind, didn’t matter which category he fell into since he wasn’t really a problem, other than the fact that I found myself falling in love. Pathetic. How to solve that? I needed to find a better balance between work and relaxation. I should meet and interact with people. Have sex with some real men.
Maybe I’d join a dating app. Wasn’t there one just for fucking? Perhaps I’d start there. Worst-case scenario with Mahoney? If he refused to fade away, I’d see a doctor for some pills.
Which left me with the biggest issue: the murders linked to my bike.
A vehicle that had no registration number. No existence whatsoever. Only two living people knew of it: Brayden and me.
A ditched Brayden might snitch and tell the cops who owned the bike suspected in those killings. The cops would then show up with a search warrant. Could I hide the motorcycle? The junkyard had the room, but if the cops were thorough, they’d discover it.
Ditching it somewhere meant the risk of it being found. And, really, what if itwasto blame for all the deaths? I couldn’t let it kill any more people.
I had to get rid of it. No bike meant not only no evidence linking me to a crime, but it would also put a stop to the murder spree.
Lucky me, I had the machinery to demolish it. My metal compacter. Once I fixed it.
With the parts I’d ordered, I went to work, hesitating when I needed to enter the garage for my toolbox. I didn’t know what I’d expected to see. The bike suddenly growling to life and running me down? Mahoney talking me out of it? He didn’t appear, and the motorcycle sat in its spot, innocuous enough that I felt foolish.
Was I really going to blame a machine? How could I even think of destroying it?
Would I prefer to go to jail for a crime I didn’t commit?
If I wanted to ride, I’d buy a new crotch rocket, one without any past history.
I lugged my tools to the compacter situated in one of the farthest corners of the yard. It seemed an odd spot until you saw the road running parallel to the fence and the oversized gate. An easy in and out that didn’t require navigating any stacks. One created for trucks to cart away the metal.
As part of my learning process for the dump, I’d been looking into my options for disposing of the things that wasted space and served no use. Metal could be sold. The cleaner the bundles, the better the price. Meaning, I stripped vehicles of all the plastic, fabric, and glass that I could. Pity Canada hated incinerators. If I were located in Europe, I would have invested in one, and disposed of unrecyclable waste. At the same time, it would have generated electricity that I could have used to offset my use and sold the surplus back to the grid.
I didn’t realize I had company until the bolt that wouldn’t budge required my vise grips, and before I could reach for them, they dangled in front of my face.
“You’ll regret destroying the bike.”
Refusing to glance at Mahoney, I focused on tightening the bolt.
“Are you really going to pretend you can’t hear me?” Mahoney growled in irritation.
I kept my gaze on the machine. “You’re a figment of my imagination.”
“Actually, the correct term is ghost. Which isn’t easy for me to admit. Ever since you woke me, I’ve been trying to piece things together.”
“How did I wake you?” Even as I asked, I knew. The horror movies gave me the answer. I’d bled on the frame of the bike. A bike he possessed.
“It was because you needed me.”
“Why would a ghost care about a stranger?” I peeked at him.
