Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
I’m uncomfortably aware of the five bikers looming behind me as we cross the parking lot to the low, brick building that houses the cremation chamber. Good God, they could do anything to me and no one would ever know. Well, my father would but what would he do about it?
Absolute terror grips me as I unlock the door and step inside. I hurry to the giant metal box and pull out the rollers. Then I move to the side panel and fire up the chamber.
“Uh, usually you’d have a container or…” What am I saying. None of this is normal. “Without it, a, uh, body can clench and appear stiff…sometimes it freaks people out…” My voice trails off again. I doubt these men will get freaked out by a pugilistic stance. “You’ll put…your, um, item in the retort. Close the door and…”
“Okay,” Marcel says. “How long?”
How many bodies do they have? “The whole process takes two to three hours, depending on the size.”
Jigsaw whistles and Murphy elbows him in the side.
“Then you’ll scrape the bone fragments out through the bottom,” I continue. “You can put them through the processor, that will grind them into ash.” I point to the metal machine in the opposite corner. “I can get you a container for that.”
Please take all evidence of tonight with you when you go.
I glance at the five men. Their expressions are blank.
Utterly terrifying.
“Do you want me to get you a cot?” I ask no one in particular.
Rock glances at the black-haired man who shrugs.
“No, that’s fine,” Rock says. “Thanks, Margot.”
My gaze slides to the door. “Any artificial parts like medical devices, or pacemakers, knee or hip replacements and jewelry should be removed…” Why am I bothering? Dad said not to ask questions and here I am coming dangerously close to asking yet another question.
What has my father gotten us into?
The bikers exchange a few glances. They’re going to end up tossing me in the chamber with whoever else is in the back of that pickup truck, aren’t they?
I squirm in my shoes. Sweat collects along the band of my knit hat. Why’d I bother to dress like a cat burglar anyway?
“Hypothetically,” the tall dark-haired one says. “If some of those things end up in there, what happens?” He jerks his thumb toward the chamber.
“Well, metal can withstand the heat of cremation. It’ll be with the ashes and bone fragments. We use a magnet to collect the pieces to dispose of them separately. Sometimes the metal can be recycled but we don’t usually do that.” I’m rambling now, so unnerved by their intense interest in every word coming out of my mouth. I hurry to finish with the most important part. “But pacemakers or anything with a battery can explode, make noise or possibly damage the chamber.”
Rock and Marcel exchange glances. Then Rock lifts his chin at me. “All right. Thank you, Margot.”
That sounds like a get lost dismissal to me. But I can’t just leave them here with the crematorium at full blast. What if they need something? Or break something? Or hurt themselves? Obviously, my father has no intention of disturbing his sleep to attend to the bikers’ body burning needs.
Let’s face it, they’re not here to dispose of some financial records. There are definitely bodies in the back of that truck.
Don’t be so judgmental, hypocrite.
But now that they don’t seem as threatening, I’m not scared. I’m not disgusted either.
I’m enthralled. Fascinated.
What did they do tonight? Who did they kill? Was it someone who deserved to meet their maker? Or was it just some petty turf war dispute? According to all the research I’d done since I met Jigsaw, motorcycle clubs fight over territory and perceived insults all the time. Enemies of clubs—this one in particular—have a habit of “disappearing” according to the Empire Times.
“We’re all set, Margot,” Marcel says. “We don’t need the cot.”
Of course they don’t need help transporting the bodies. They’re men. Tall, muscular men who can easily protect themselves and carry a dead body when they’re done doling out vigilante justice. They don’t have to resort to creative methods for body removal. How freeing it must be to know you can handle the dirtiest jobs.
Marcel walks outside with the dark-haired one. Jigsaw follows him.
“Margot?” Rock prompts.
“Oh. I’ll leave you be.” I glance at the chamber that’s roaring now. “I’ll be close by if you need help with anything—”
“No reason for you to get cold out there.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Give Jigsaw your number. We’ll text you if we need something.”
I blink rapidly. He wants me to walk up to Jigsaw and give him my number? What if he laughs in my face? Or thinks I’m coming onto him?
Hardly the time for that.
“Sure, uh, okay.” I force a shaky smile. “Can’t I give it to you?”