Page 25 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

But the moment it’s out of my mouth, I realize Ididdo this. If I hadn’t been late for my shift, I could have made him slow down or directed him away from the sinkhole. He definitely would’ve screamed at me again, but at least the car wouldn’t have crashed. He wouldn’t be dead.

Oh god.

This istotallymy fault.

I’m about to blurt out a confession, but the lady has moved on—she’s scoping out the scene, looking underneath the car, peering in the back windows, opening and closing the passenger-side door, which makes the car groan.

“Hey, ma’am?”

She shoots me a dirty look, and I start again.

“Do you think maybe we should wait for—” The rest of that sentence catches in my throat as shelifts Poodle Dude’s head off the steering wheel, which somehow sets off adelugeof what appears to be... the totality of his guts? My vision goes wavy, my soul leaves my body, and before I know it, the lady is next to me, snapping her fingers in my face and patting my cheek.

Then she full-out slaps me.

“What the heck!” I yell.

“This is no time to get soft,” she says, elbowing me. “They’re coming.”

I drag my eyes away from Poodle Dude and see what she’s elbowing about: The first wave of kids and parents is making their way toward us. Their bright, excited faces and colorful backpacks and cheerful, innocent morning chatter are steadily closing in on this extremely gross dead guy and a lifetime of therapy. “What do I do?” I ask, absolutely panicked.

“I’ll call 911,” she says. “You cover this up.”

“Cover this...”

“Coverhimup. So all those cute little kids aren’t traumatized for the rest of their lives.” She shoves her green hat in my hands. There are bloody fingerprints smeared across the brim. “There you go.”

Oh.

Okay.

Yes.

I can do this. I can keep those kids from owing a mountain of therapy co-pays.

I take a step toward the car and the dogs growl.

I take a step back.

“Now!” the lady orders. She waves her phone at me aggressively, and I decide she’s scarier than the dogs, so I leap into action, first sticking my hand carefully through the driver’s-side window and placing the green sun hat over the dead guy. It doesn’t cover all of him, but it’s a good start.

The kids are getting closer and as she listens to someone on the other end of the phone, the lady frowns at me and mouths the wordsKeep going!but I have no idea what else there is to do. The windows are tinted, but maybe that’s not enough? There needs to be some other distraction, but my brain is just screamingSave the kids!, so I do the first thing that flashes into my mind: I hop up on the hood of the Kia and sprawl out like I’m the goofy member of a nineties boy band.

Between me and the tinted windows, these kids arenot seeing a dead body on my watch.

Unfortunately, I’m so focused on the kids that I’ve forgotten about the poodles, who now start scratching at the car (not ideal) and one of them is hunching down like he’s going to jump up here with me, while at the same time the car begins to groan like it’s a centimeter away from dipping perilously farther into the hole. Nope, nope, this isn’t good. I lean back hard into the windshield, proppingmyself on the little pocket where the wipers go. To my everlasting relief, the groaning stops.

The poodles are now goingcrazy,though, barking their poofy heads off at me and their dead papá. Oh god, do dogs eat dead bodies?

I can’t let the kids see that.

Clearly the dogs managed to jumpoutof the car windows, what if they jump backin?

And time’s up, because the first group of kids and parents has reached the opposite corner, where they’re all eyeing me curiously.

“Just a little fender bender!” I call, trying to sound chipper. “Don’t worry, everyone’s still alive!” I look both ways for oncoming traffic, then stretch out my stop sign arm as far as it can go. “No one’s coming, go ahead and cross!”

They do not cross.