Page 4 of Trigger Happy

“And wait hours for the bones to dissolve? Who has time for that? I’ve got a limoncello-induced coma waiting for me back at the ranch.”

“I always pictured you as more of a whiskey guy,” I say.

All I get is a grunt.

Lawton taps a name on his phone. He puts it on speaker (speaker!) as he digs through his duffel. It rings. “Hey, Ma. I need help disposing a body.”

I’ve never met a man who calls his mother more than Lawton Montoya. If our families didn’t hate each other, I’d think it was sweet.

“Aren’t you by the Pacific?” Her raspy Texan accent comes through. “Find a rock and dump it in the ocean.”

“Yeah, but that requires renting a boat, and I don’t want to leave a paper trail.”

“Then steal one.”

“That’s a pain in the ass,” he says.

“What about sulfuric acid?”

He scratches his neck. “Can’t exactly pack that in a carry-on.”

She’s quiet, then: “Oh! I have a contact at a FedEx in Laguna Beach. Just ship the remains to us. We’ll take care of it at the ranch, but don’t forget to double bag it. You don’t want leaks on your snakeskin boots.”

“How can we trust your contacts?” I interject, knowing she’ll hear me on speaker.

“ ’Cause Ma’s contacts always come through,” Lawton says, his hand over the speaker. “Her money launderer is the best pet groomer I know.”

“Is that who I think it is?” she bites out, full of fury. “You tell that girl she can freeze her ass off with Judas in the ninth circle of hell.”

“A Dante’s Inferno reference? I’m impressed, Carmen,” I say. “I didn’t know you Montoyas knew how to read, and in case you forgot, my parents can’t step foot in this country thanks to—”

“It’s Mrs. Montoya, you little—”

“Thanks for the tips, Ma,” Lawton says. “Love you. Bye.”

He hangs up.

I pour the peroxide on the blood droplets staining the concrete so they start to break down. “Always a delight, your mother.”

“What’d you expect?” he says. “You thought she’d invite you to Thanksgiving? Did you forget your asshole mom put my brother in the ground?”

I flinch. There it is.

He tries to hide it with a cough, but his voice cracks when he says brother, and for one tiny, embarrassing millisecond, I feel that shard of guilt poking behind my ribs, but I jam it deep down, right next to all the birthday wishes I made for a normal life.

My fists ball up. “How many times do I have to tell you? It was an accident.”

“Yeah, and I’m a priest,” he scoffs. “Her prints were all over his apartment, and you’re saying she ‘accidentally’ killed him? Lie better, Chastain. Your mom took our family bullshit too far by killing my brother.”

A red-hot wave of anger prickles over me, but it’s not like he’d believe me if I told him the truth. “My parents are fugitives because of them. My mom had to flee the country after your family put her on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.”

A storm rolls over his face. “Must be tough living it up in Antigua or Barbados or wherever-the-fuck they are, chugging piña coladas with tiny umbrellas.”

Yucatán Peninsula and mai tais, but close enough.

“So? I can barely talk to them. The cell reception’s too spotty, and I never get to see them anymore,” I say, hating how my voice wobbles in front of him.

And it’s not as if I have anyone else to call on a whim. Having friends as a professional human soup maker is basically impossible. What would I say when I can’t make it to girls’ night? Sorry! Off to strangle a mobster, but I’ll pick up some weed seltzer on the way back!