The next day, Tiff and I awoke to the news that Aaron Fitzgerald’s body was found dead in his apartment. Appalled, we rushed to the hospital where his body was taken, driven with guilt and misery.
“How is this possible?” Tiffany whispered shaken to me, trembling as we took in the ashen face of our friend lying lifeless on a stretcher. “Last night, he was stacked in some cheesy motel, and now he’s dead in his own apartment!”
“Husssshhh!!” I urged desperately, glancing furtively around to check whether somebody might have overheard us. Something huge was going on, and we had to exonerate our involvement otherwise our lives might as well be in peril.
“We should have helped him, Arie,” sobbed Tiffany plaintively, and I locked my jaw tightly to repress the grief. “He called us.”
Switching
