Bruce drove the Chevette, hunched over the wheel. It was the only way he could sit, given the seat wouldn’t go back any farther. He squinted through the smeary windshield; the worn wipers were doing a poor job clearing the hard rain that struck the windshield.
Bruce was weary from the two-hour interrogation by Detective Sanchez, and driving this sorry excuse for a car made him edgy. At least the detective allowed him to wash the blood off his hands, but dark stains remained on the cuffs of his jeans.
The detective had been satisfied that they hadn’t murdered poor Emily, but she eyed them suspiciously when they said they were riding together. No doubt Sanchez thought they’d become lovers, something neither Trudy nor Bruce made any attempt to correct.
Let her think what she wanted to. It
