by DL Cook
“Hello? I can't take it anymore. I wanna confess,” said the woman in interrogation room one.
“Wh-wha,” Ted stirred.
“I want to confess,” the woman told him.
Ted sat up and rubbed his eyes. He wobbled out to find Libby.
Ingrid had the driver stop a short walk from the cabin.
“Right here? But there's nothing here but trees.”
There were no door handles. “Let me out,” she said.
“Okay. Whatever.” Kurt opened the door for her.
“You should really get all that fixed. Looks like a cop car. No one wants that.”
“Yeah, alright.”
Ingrid handed him a couple of bills.
“No tip?” Kurt made an annoyed sound with his tongue.
“I just gave you a tip,” Ingrid said. What a moron.
“Yeah, whatever.” He made a u-turn, bending a few bushes as he rode over them. The car went past a bend in the road and was gone.
Ingrid shook her head. Wallace had better have a good reason for disappearing. She bent into the slight incline, estimating that she was maybe ten minutes from her cabin. She told Travis' goon to defrost some meat. He better have done it.
She drew her eyes up from time to time as she climbed, thinking that she should've let that idiot drive her a bit further. On one of these occasions she saw a man, bent over and bouncing toward her.
Ingrid did a double take. She stopped. What the hell was she looking at? The man with a chair on his back halted next to her and plopped down. The metal legs dinned.
He panted, “oh Mrs. Quinton. Thank God!”
