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Luck isn’t always on our side.  Sometimes we have to do the best we can.  Enjoy Part 5 of A Dangerous Game.  Thanks.

  

PART 5

 

MONICA DROVE FIFTY MILES PER HOUR down a thirty-five mile per hour street.  The drug she was given in the house was still in her system. Her vision blurred at times.  She could feel her SUV drifting out of its lane.  Then she would bring it back.

 

She told herself to slow down.  But she was too anxious to do it for long.  She wanted to get as far away from that house with the dead body in it as fast as she could.

 

She slammed on her brakes at the stop sign at the end of the street.  Where should she go?  She asked herself.

 

The house was five minutes behind her. The police would be there soon.  She would turn herself in.  Tell the police it was an accident.  Fall on the mercy of the court.

 

She quickly changed her mind.  She would wait until the police came to get her.  By then she would have had time to think of a good defense.

 

She stomped on the gas pedal and headed down the street.  The area looked familiar to her. She had driven on this street before.  She looked to the side and saw the street sign.

 

IT was Drenner Steet.  She knew this street. One of her daughter’s friends lived nearby.  She had given her a ride home a few times.  If she remembered correctly, there was a side street in the area.  It was a dead end.  But she could pull over there and think.

 

She punched the gas and flew through a stop sign without stopping.  Horns sounded off.  But she did not stop.  At first, she did not realize who the horns were for.  Then, she did.

 

She looked in her rearview mirror. She expected a police car would be coming after her at any second.  She drove and waited and kept going.

 

A minute later she looked to her left.  Pinker Street was coming up.  She put her blinker on as she turned onto the street.  It was more like a small alley.

 

She drove to the end of Pinker Street and slammed on the brakes.  The SUV slid to a stop.  Her head shot forward and back, slamming against the headrest.  It hurt her neck.  She rubbed it and ignored most of the pain.

 

Tears filled her eyes.  She squeezed the steering wheel and began to cry.  Her life was over.  She was going to prison.  How?  Why?

 

She would not kill that man over money.  She would have taken her chances and talked him out of blackmailing her. She would not have killed him.  That caller had to be lying.  But, who was the caller?  Did he really see her?

 

She looked at her hands.  There was blood on them.  Not a lot.  She jerked her head down and up, looking at her clothes.  There was not much blood on them either.

 

She touched her pants pocket.  She then slowly put her hand inside her pocket. The knife and phone were in it.  What should she do with the knife?  Keep it?  Yes.  Keep it, and the phone.  Until she could figure out what really happened.

 

Her office, she thought.  She needed to call her office.  Let them know she was running behind because of an unforeseen emergency.  She needed to go home and change clothes.  Change her clothes and go back to the office and act normal.

 

She pounded on the steering wheel with her fists and yelled, “Shit!  Shit!  Shit!  What the hell happened to me?!”  She put her head on the steering wheel and cried again.

 

Knock.  Knock.  Knock.  Knock.

 

Monica lifted her head and turned toward her driver’s window.  A police officer was staring her in the face.  He motioned for her to put down her window.

 

Monica felt sick.  She wanted to vomit.  She put the window down.  All she could think about was the blood on her hands and clothes.

 

They have me, she thought.

 

Time runs out when we are not ready for it to run out.  Just ask Monica.

Thank you for stopping by on your weekend.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

Stephen Wallace