One Fatal Mistake - Hardcover

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Tom Hunt is an award-winning advertising copywriter. He has worked for some of the nation's largest and best-known agencies, including J. Walter Thompson and Saatchi & Saatchi. Killer Choice was his first novel.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright © 2018 Tom Hunt

THURSDAY

CHAPTER ONE

The front door flew open and a shadowy figure covered in blood stormed into the house. The living room was nearly pitch-black as Joshua Mayo ran across the room, down the hallway, into the bathroom. He flipped on the bathroom light and quickly stripped out of his bloody clothes—his winter coat, shirt, shoes, pants. He threw everything into a pile in the corner.

He walked over to the sink, gripped the sides of it, and closed his eyes. Paused for a moment. Breathed deeply, slowly. In and out. The past thirty minutes had happened at warp speed and he needed a moment to slow his racing heart, calm the roiling chaos in his mind.

Standing over the sink, his entire body shaking, he looked nothing like an eighteen-year-old honor-roll student. Deep shadows hollowed out his pale cheeks. His eyes were red and puffy from the crying he’d done earlier. His blond hair was spiky in some places, matted to his skull in others.

And then there was the blood. It was everywhere. Smudged all over his hands. Streaked in his hair. Splattered onto his face, vivid as war paint.

He took a final deep breath and stepped away from the sink. It was time to bury his emotions and focus. His mom would be home in the next half hour and there was so much to do before then.

He stepped into the shower and turned on the water. It washed over him, rinsing the blood down the drain—bright red, then pink, then clear.

The shower took two minutes. When he finished, he toweled himself dry and threw open the small door under the sink. He found a roll of garbage bags, tore one off, and put all his bloody clothes into the bag. After changing into a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt in his bedroom, he carried the bag out to the garage.

In the corner of the garage, he scanned an assortment of items stored on a large shelving unit—some of his mom’s gardening tools, three half-inflated basketballs, a few cans of paint—and grabbed a red plastic gasoline can they used for fueling the lawn mower in the summer. He shook the can and heard some liquid slosh around inside.

He set down the can and garbage bag and ran back into the house. Rummaged around in a few drawers and cupboards until he found what he was looking for: a book of matches.

He carried everything out to the small wooden deck on the back side of the house. Even though he wasn’t wearing a coat, Joshua barely noticed the biting early-February cold. All the patio furniture on the deck had been stored away for the winter, but the grill was still in the corner, a black protective cover draped over it. He pulled the cover off, lifted the lid, and dumped the contents of the garbage bag onto the grill—his coat, shirt, pants, shoes.

He looked out from the deck at their small backyard, the tranquil farmland that stretched forever, the night sky above. Silence was everywhere. Their closest neighbors were half a mile away in opposite directions—the Thompsons to the east, the Chamberlains to the west—and the lights in both of their homes were out. Far in the distance, six miles away, he could just barely see the outline of a few midrise buildings and houses in Cedar Rapids.

Joshua picked up the can and poured gas over the clothes in the grill, emptying the can. The fumes made his eyes water. Once the clothes were soaked, he wadded up the garbage bag and placed it on top of everything.

He grabbed the book of matches and tore one off. Tried to strike it once, twice, until the flame finally caught. He threw the match into the grill and the clothes caught fire instantly.

Flames jumped and raged for a few minutes, then died out. Joshua stepped closer to the grill and looked inside. The coat was a smoldering lump; the shoes had melted into a deformed blob of leather and plastic. Everything was charred but hadn’t burned away entirely. Evidence would still remain.

He had to get rid of it all.

He ran inside and grabbed another garbage bag. Ran back out to the patio and threw the remains of his clothes inside. He hurried down to the lawn and found the loose board near the base of the patio, the board he had always moved to the side when he’d sneaked under the patio to play when he was younger.

He threw the bag of clothes under the patio and put the board back in place. Tomorrow—he’d figure out how to dispose of everything then. When things weren’t so hectic.

He threw the cover back onto the grill and took the gas can to the storage rack in the garage. Before going back into the house, he looked at his car, a white Nissan Altima, a hand-me-down from his mom. Earlier, he’d poured water over the car’s hood and windshield to wash away the splatters of blood, but he looked it over once again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Everything looked clean; no blood remained. The only evidence that the car had just been involved in a hit-and-run accident was the smashed front grille and the crack that splintered through the middle of the windshield, but those could be explained away.

He exited the garage and walked through the house to his bedroom. He lay down in bed. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, not with the way his body was humming like a low-voltage electrical wire, but there was always a chance. By some miracle, he might actually drift off and the worst night of his life would come to an end.

Before closing his eyes, there was one final thing he needed to do. He grabbed his phone off the bedside table and pulled up his most recent text exchange. He typed out a message:

You there?

A moment later, the response appeared onscreen:

I’m here. Did you get back home?

Yeah. I washed up. Got rid of the clothes.

What about your mom?

She’s not home yet. I’m alone.

Joshua waited. Then he typed: I can’t believe we’re covering this up.

The response came after a few seconds:

I feel bad, too. Sick to my stomach. But we could’ve been in deep trouble if we went to the police. We did what had to be done.

A moment later, a second message appeared:

It will be our little secret. No one will ever know about this but us.

FRIDAY

CHAPTER TWO

Amber Youngblood pulled a black Camry into a street-side parking stall and killed the engine. She stared out at the downtown square of Hastings, Nebraska. Dark storefronts. Empty sidewalks. Vacant parking stalls lining the silent street. This early in the morning, there was no activity in the small town—but that would soon change.

Her husband, Ross, sat in the passenger seat, statue still, no expression on his hawkish, weather-beaten face. Black jeans, black sweatshirt, both tight against his thin, scrawny-strong frame. His long hair was tied into a ponytail, a sprinkle of gray sharing space with the darker hairs.

“So we’re doing this,” Ross said. “We’re really doing this.”

“Damn straight we are.”

Ross turned and faced the man who’d just answered. His older brother, Shane. The third and final member of their party. A massive, stocky man squeezed into the car’s small backseat like an elephant in a cartoon. He had a flat, unsmiling face. Unkempt beard. His lips were downturned into a scowl, his eyes emotionless. Late thirties, a few years older than Ross and Amber.

“Ain’t getting cold feet, are you?” Shane said.

“Hell no,” Ross answered. “I’m ready to go.”

“Good.” Shane looked at Amber. “You?”

“Yeah,” Amber said. “I’m ready.”

The...