Chapter 2 - The Glovebox
Mark didn't call for backup. His fingers went numb as he grabbed the trunk lid and jerked it upward.
Empty. Just a pile of wet trash and a crumpled neon-pink gym bag.
He dropped the lid, letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, but his heart was still hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"What were you looking for?" Sam asked, her flashlight beam cutting through the rain. She stepped around the driver's door, shining the light directly onto the Mayor’s face.
Vance’s eyes were open. Glazed, fixed on the dashboard.
"He’s gone," Sam muttered, leaning in to check his neck. "Two shots to the chest. Point blank. No shell casings on the seat."
Mark didn't answer. He reached past Vance’s motionless shoulder and popped open the glove compartment.
"Mark, don't touch anything until forensics—"
A thick brown envelope fell out, landing right in the pool of fresh blood on the floor mat. Mark picked it up anyway, his thumb smudging the wet crimson across the paper. Inside were six polaroids.
The top photo was taken from inside a dark room, looking down at a diner parking lot. Sitting in the booth by the window were two people sharing a coffee: Sam, and a man whose face had been aggressively scratched out with a key.
Mark looked up at Sam. She was staring at the photo in his hand, her jaw tight, her flashlight beam trembling against the mud.
"Mark," she whispered, taking a half-step back. "I can explain that."
May you like
"Don't," Mark said, dropping the photos back into the envelope. "Because if you lie to me right now, I'm going to leave you out here in the rain."
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