Georgia heaved a sigh. “Well, I guess if she turned herself in, a prosecutor might go easy on her and cut her a deal.”
I sat up. That was it. I could turn myself in to Georgia. Given the choice between arresting me or letting me go, she would definitely let me go. The alternative was being stuck with my kids until someone posted bail for me, and she wouldn’t keep them a minute longer than absolutely necessary.
“So are you coming to get Zach and Delia now that we’ve solved your fictional problem?”
Zach was asleep. I could hear his snotty-nosed soft baby breaths over the quiet hum of the van in the garage and the distant barks of a neighbor’s dogs down the street.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m wrapping things up now. I’ll be over soon.”
Georgia disconnected. I set the phone on the floor. It was still sticky, furry with strands of Delia’s hair. Somehow, the day had gone from bad to worse. I was no further along on my book, and no closer to being able to pay my own bills. And once the police report was filed, Steven and Theresa’s attorney would have one more reason to paint me as an unfit parent. It wouldn’t matter that a monster like Harris was in jail and off the street. I’d been out at a bar in a wig and a stolen dress, drinking the money my husband had given me for gas. I had drugged a man, and then abducted him in the back of the family minivan.
Or …
I could make Harris Mickler disappear, pray Patricia Mickler wasn’t lying about the money, and hope I was lucky enough not to get caught.
I pushed myself to my feet and brushed waffle crumbs off my backside. Then I carried my heels and my wig-scarf upstairs to change into a pair of clean underwear and comfortable clothes, just in case I ended up getting arrested after all. I took my time brushing the taste of the bar from my teeth, washing Harris’s spit from my ear, and wiping the makeup from my face. When I was done, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and took a deep breath, preparing myself for what I was about to do. I was going to turn Harris Mickler—and my statement—over to my sister.
Because, let’s face it, I’m not exactly the luckiest person I know.
CHAPTER 9
My feet were heavy as I descended the steps to the kitchen. I stood in front of the door to the garage, my forehead pressed against it as I convinced myself （again） that this was the right thing to do. Resigned, I opened the door. The air on the other side was thin and hot, and the fumes hit me like a punch to the throat. I choked into my sleeve, swatting away exhaust. The hum of the minivan seemed deafening in the closed space, and I rushed to throw open the door to the backyard before turning the ignition off.
Silence fell over the garage. The breeze that blew in from the yard was cold and crisp, and I leaned against the van’s hood, berating myself for leaving the damn thing running as the fumes began to filter out. Slightly light-headed, and maybe a little buzzed from the champagne and vodka tonics I’d drunk on an empty stomach in the bar, it seemed like a good idea to wait a few minutes for my head to clear and the garage to air out. Though if I were being honest with myself, I was only putting off the inevitable. I didn’t want to turn Harris Mickler over to my sister any more than I wanted to kill him. In fact, I didn’t want anything to do with Patricia or Harris Mickler ever—
Oh … Oh, no.
I lurched upright as the last of the fog drained from my head.
I’d left Harris Mickler in the van.
I ran to the passenger side and threw open the sliding door, unsure if I should be relieved or horrified that Harris was right where I’d left him.
“Harris?” I shook him by the feet. “Harris, are you okay?”
I climbed over Zach’s seat and knelt beside him, slapping the side of his face. When nothing happened, I slapped him harder. His cheek was a little warm, but then again so was I, and I was pretty sure my heart had stopped beating about thirty seconds ago. I called his name, uncertain of what I would do if he actually responded. I didn’t know what was worse: being trapped in the back of a van with a dead serial rapist I had abducted, or being trapped in the back of a van with a very angry, awake serial rapist I had abducted.
I pressed two fingers to the side of his neck and felt … nothing, which meant I was either doing it wrong, or—
Oh no, oh no, oh no …
I laid an ear against his chest. Nothing moved. I reached over the front seat for my purse, digging frantically inside for my compact and flipping open the mirror, holding it suspended under Harris’s nose. The glass didn’t fog, and I fell back on my heels.