Chapter 3 - The Broken Phone
Sam didn't defend herself. She reached into her rain jacket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and tried to light one. The damp air killed the spark three times. She cursed, threw the lighter into the brush, and kicked the rear tire of the crashed car.
"It was three months ago," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "Before the Mayor called the state police on the precinct. That guy in the photo? He said he had proof Vance was skimming from the highway fund."
"And you didn't log it?" Mark’s voice was flat. Cold.
"No," she spat, turning on him. "Because the guy was my brother, Mark! And he’s a junk addict who needed five grand to keep his head above water!"
Mark stared at her. A long, heavy silence stretched between them, filled only by the rhythmic thrum of rain hitting the metal roof of the Taurus.
From inside the car, a sharp, metallic buzzing broke the quiet.
Vance’s personal phone, wedged between the center console and the passenger seat, was glowing. An incoming call with no caller ID.
Mark leaned through the open door, his glove sliding on the wet leather, and flicked the screen open. He pressed the phone to his ear, saying nothing.
A voice, heavily muffled through a damp cloth, spoke four words:
"Is it done, Deputy?"
May you like
Mark caught Sam’s eye in the dark. She was watching him, her hand resting inches above her holstered sidearm.
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