The woman remained by my side while the man went around the car to the driver’s door, leaned in and popped the trunk. At the sound, I turned around. Watched him walk to the back, lift the lid and stood. Staring
Giving a little shift of his head, the woman joined him. So did I.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, my throat closing up at the sight. There, in the trunk of my full-sized rental, was a dead man. Forty-something, receding hairline, overweight, suit and tie. Glazed eyes stared up at me. There was a bullet hole in his forehead. And he was starting to smell. God, the horrific scent lifted up in the breeze. It wasn't powerful, yet. I assumed the only way I didn't notice it was that the windows had been open.
I felt the blood rush out of my head. Little black dots danced in front of eyes, making it look like flies were crawling on the body. I pivoted on my heel as I felt my stomach revolt, vomiting all over the concrete. Once the dry heaves subsided, I stayed bent over, one hand on my knee, trying to catch my breath. I wiped the back of my hand over my mouth, wishing I had some water to wash away the acidic taste in my mouth. All this time neither officer hadn’t moved, the woman's black work shoes and creased pants in my periphery.
The police probably thought I’d thrown up because of seeing the dead body. I hadn’t. I’d thrown up because I knew I was in big trouble. It was happening again. All my fears, all my worries over the past twelve years had come to life. Or death, like the body in the trunk. God, I knew I shouldn’t have left New York, shouldn’t have left the safe structure I’d made of my life for a little fun. I didn’t do fun. I wasn’t allowed. Because the moment I had some fun, just a tiny lit bit, this was what happened.