The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 39

"Seriously?" I say.

"Seriously," Sam says.

There's a long pause. I can't work up a comeback. What do you say to that? Congratulations? How'd you do it?

"So...you think you killed someone?" I say.

"Yes. I think I killed someone," Sam says.

She says it slow. One. Word. At. A. Time. Her eyes watch me process the confession.

It feels more like an accusation. Like I killed someone. Shouldn't feel that way, since obviously I haven't. But it does.

My mouth is smarter than my gut. This is about her, not me.

"What do you mean?" I say.

Sam's silent. Like she doesn't like me asking. Maybe she wanted me to say something else?

I'm ready to grab the keys and leave. Yeah, I've done plenty of illegal shit in my time. But murder? That's my line. That's everyone's line. Not hanging out with murderers.

Hell, even the farmers who hired me would ask if the shithead I roughed up was OK. Hit 'em. Cut 'em. Whatever. But never kill 'em. It's just money, after all. There's plenty of it. The farmers more or less wanted to get a point across. Not put people in the ground.

This is why you can't trust out-staters. They fuck with your head. Tell you all kinds of stories.

I reach for the knife. It's already gone. Sam's licking the peanut butter off it. Real nice and slow. Eyes on me the whole time.

"Do you think I did it?" Sam says.

"How am I supposed to know?" I say.

One of us is fucked up in the head. Or both, but I can't tell. Not with the adrenaline greasing my heart beat into overdrive. Not with the brainfuck of this entire night. Wouldn't be surprised if that shadow person walked through the door and made a sandwich.

"You must think I'm a murderer. You reached for the knife. Maybe you know something you're not telling me," Sam says.

"Like what? That I know something about a murder? I thought this was about you, not me," I say.

"It is about you. Not me. Because I thought I could trust you with a secret. Turns out you've got a killer streak yourself," Sam says. Points the tip of the knife at me. "What would you have done if you'd got to this knife before me?"

"Just being careful. A pretty forgivable offense. I didn't want you to think you'd killed me next," I say. "Isn't that what you would do if you thought I killed someone?"

"I just did," Sam says. Twirls the knife.

What the hell?

"Seriously? You think I killed someone?" I say.

"Maybe. You've been pretty shady so far. You don't carry yourself well. Something's bothering you. I can tell," Sam says.

No shit.

"Speak for yourself," I say. "Look, I'm a fuck up from a farm in North Dakota. I haven't talked to my folks in a long time. I do odd jobs as a hired hand for a living. This is one of them. That's it. The end. I'm no murderer. Now did you kill someone or what?"

The answer is not what I expect.

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