One Fatal Mistake Read online

  ALSO BY TOM HUNT

  KILLER CHOICE

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  1745 Broadway, New York, New York 10019

  Copyright © 2019 by Andy Hunt

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hunt, Tom (Novelist), author.

  Title: One fatal mistake / Tom Hunt.

  Description: First Edition. | New York: Berkley, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018031889 | ISBN 9780399586439 (hardback) | ISBN 9780399586446 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION/Suspense. | GSAFD:

  Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.U587 O54 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018031889

  First Edition: February 2019

  Jacket photo by Harald Sund/Getty Images

  Jacket design by Emily Osbourne

  Interior art: car headlights © tcharts/Shutterstock Images

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To Hayley.

  Thanks for the countless laughs

  and memories over the years.

  CONTENTS

  Also by Tom Hunt

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  THURSDAYCHAPTER ONE

  FRIDAYCHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SATURDAYCHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SUNDAYCHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE NEXT WEEKCHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  THURSDAY

  ONE

  The front door flew open and a shadowy figure covered in blood stormed into the house. The living room was nearly pitch-black as Joshua Mayo ran across the room, down the hallway, into the bathroom. He flipped on the bathroom light and quickly stripped out of his bloody clothes—his winter coat, shirt, shoes, pants. He threw everything into a pile in the corner.

  He walked over to the sink, gripped the sides of it, and closed his eyes. Paused for a moment. Breathed deeply, slowly. In and out. The past thirty minutes had happened at warp speed and he needed a moment to slow his racing heart, calm the roiling chaos in his mind.

  Standing over the sink, his entire body shaking, he looked nothing like an eighteen-year-old honor-roll student. Deep shadows hollowed out his pale cheeks. His eyes were red and puffy from the crying he’d done earlier. His blond hair was spiky in some places, matted to his skull in others.

  And then there was the blood. It was everywhere. Smudged all over his hands. Streaked in his hair. Splattered onto his face, vivid as war paint.

  He took a final deep breath and stepped away from the sink. It was time to bury his emotions and focus. His mom would be home in the next half hour and there was so much to do before then.

  He stepped into the shower and turned on the water. It washed over him, rinsing the blood down the drain—bright red, then pink, then clear.

  * * *

  • • •

  The shower took two minutes. When he finished, he toweled himself dry and threw open the small door under the sink. He found a roll of garbage bags, tore one off, and put all his bloody clothes into the bag. After changing into a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt in his bedroom, he carried the bag out to the garage.

  In the corner of the garage, he scanned an assortment of items stored on a large shelving unit—some of his mom’s gardening tools, three half-inflated basketballs, a few cans of paint—and grabbed a red plastic gasoline can they used for fueling the lawn mower in the summer. He shook the can and heard some liquid slosh around inside.

  He set down the can and garbage bag and ran back into the house. Rummaged around in a few drawers and cupboards until he found what he was looking for: a book of matches.

  He carried everything out to the small wooden deck on the back side of the house. Even though he wasn’t wearing a coat, Joshua barely noticed the biting early-February cold. All the deck furniture had been stored away for the winter, but the grill was still in the corner, a black protective cover draped over it. He pulled the cover off, lifted the lid, and dumped the contents of the garbage bag onto the grill—his coat, shirt, pants, shoes.

  He looked out from the deck at the small backyard, the tranquil farmland that stretched forever, the night sky above. Silence was everywhere. Their closest neighbors were half a mile away in opposite directions—the Thompsons to the east, the Chamberlains to the west—and the lights in both of their homes were out. Far in the distance, six miles away, he could just barely see the outline of a few mid-rise buildings and houses in Cedar Rapids.

  Joshua picked up the can and poured gas over the clothes on the grill, emptying the can. The fumes made his eyes water. Once the clothes were soaked, he wadded up the garbage bag and placed it on top of everything.

  He grabbed the book of matches and tore one off. Tried to strike it once, twice, until the flame finally caught. He threw the match onto the grill and the clothes caught fire instantly.

  * * *

  • • •

  Flames jumped and raged for a few minutes, then died out. Joshua stepped closer to the grill and looked inside. The coat was a smoldering lump; the shoes had melted into a deformed blob of leather and plastic. Everything was charred but hadn’t burned away entirely. Evidence would still remain.

  He had to get rid of it all.

  He ran inside and grabbed another garbage bag. Ran back out to the patio and threw the remains of his clothes into it. He hurried down to the lawn and found the loose board near the base of the patio,
the board he had always moved to the side when he’d sneaked under the patio to play when he was younger.

  He threw the bag of clothes under the patio and put the board back in place. Tomorrow—he’d figure out how to dispose of everything then. When things weren’t so hectic.

  He threw the cover back over the grill and took the gas can to the storage rack in the garage. Before going back into the house, he looked at his car, a white Nissan Altima, a hand-me-down from his mom. Earlier, he’d poured water over the car’s hood and windshield to wash away the splatters of blood, but he looked it over once again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Everything looked clean; no blood remained. The only evidence that the car had just been involved in a hit-and-run accident was the smashed grille and the crack that splintered through the middle of the windshield, but those could be explained away.

  He exited the garage and walked through the house to his bedroom. He lay down in bed. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, not with the way his body was humming like a low-voltage electrical wire, but there was always a chance. By some miracle, he might actually drift off and the worst night of his life would come to an end.

  Before he closed his eyes, there was one final thing he needed to do. He grabbed his phone off the bedside table and pulled up his most recent text exchange. He typed out a message:

  You there?

  A moment later, the response appeared onscreen:

  I’m here. Did you get back home?

  Yeah. I washed up. Got rid of the clothes.

  What about your mom?

  She’s not home yet. I’m alone.

  Joshua waited. Then he typed: I can’t believe we’re covering this up.

  The response came after a few seconds:

  I feel bad, too. Sick to my stomach. But we could’ve been in deep trouble if we went to the police. We did what had to be done.

  A moment later, another message appeared:

  It will be our little secret. No one will ever know about this but us.

  FRIDAY

  TWO

  Amber Youngblood pulled a black Camry into a street-side parking stall and killed the engine. She stared out at the downtown square of Hastings, Nebraska. Dark storefronts. Empty sidewalks. Vacant parking stalls lining the silent street. This early in the morning, there was no activity in the small town—but that would soon change.

  Her husband, Ross, sat in the passenger seat, statue still, no expression on his hawkish, weather-beaten face. Black jeans, black sweatshirt, both tight against his thin, scrawny-strong frame. His long hair was tied into a ponytail, a sprinkle of gray sharing space with the darker hairs.

  “So we’re doing this,” Ross said. “We’re really doing this.”

  “Damn straight we are.”

  Ross turned and faced the man who’d just answered. His older brother, Shane. The third and final member of their party. A massive, stocky man squeezed into the car’s small backseat like an elephant in a cartoon. He had a flat, unsmiling face. Unkempt beard. His lips were arranged into a scowl, his eyes emotionless. Late thirties, a few years older than Ross and Amber.

  “Ain’t getting cold feet, are you?” Shane said.

  “Hell no,” Ross answered. “I’m ready to go.”

  “Good.” Shane looked at Amber. “You?”

  “Yeah,” Amber said. “I’m ready.”

  The discomfort in her stomach told a different story. She’d already puked once this morning because she was so nervous; she felt like she could again at any moment.

  They stared out the car’s tinted windows for a silent moment at the not-yet-open businesses lining the town square. A few restaurants, an insurance office, a barbershop. At the end of the block was a building they’d driven by repeatedly over the past week, committing every last detail to memory. It was a large building with a brick façade. HASTINGS STATE BANK, the sign above the door read. WHERE PEOPLE COME FIRST.

  “There it is,” Shane said. “The bank. About to take that bastard down.”

  “Let’s review the plan,” Ross said. “One last time.”

  “Review the plan? Shit, Ross. You should have the plan down cold by now.”

  “I do.”

  “Then why the hell you asking to review it again?”

  “Just wanted something to talk about. I don’t like the silence. Trust me, I know what to do when this goes down.”

  “You better. Focus, man. We gotta focus. Can’t afford any mistakes here. You grabbed the baggie before we left, right?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Ross said. He pulled a small baggie filled with about twenty pills from his pocket, a mix of white, blue, and yellow ones.

  “Pop one,” Shane said. “Time to get serious. And stick with the yellows. Don’t need much. Just a quick hit.”

  Ross grabbed a yellow pill from the bag and put it into his mouth.

  “Good,” Shane said. “Now toss it back here.”

  Ross tossed the baggie toward the backseat. Shane pulled out a yellow pill and swallowed it.

  “A little vitamin R,” he said. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  He threw the baggie back to the front seat. Ross grabbed it and put it into his pocket.

  They waited. Amber glanced at the dashboard clock: 7:44. Just a few more minutes. She drummed her fingers against the steering wheel, wiped away the sweat on her forehead, chewed on her lip. She couldn’t believe they were about to do this. Rob a bank. Like something out of a movie. She never thought things would actually reach this point; she figured a minor detail would fall through and they’d have to back out at the last minute. But here they were. Only moments away.

  “Let’s get ready,” Shane said.

  He grabbed a backpack resting next to him and pulled out three Star Wars masks—cheap plastic Halloween masks, the kind available from countless Web sites and novelty shops. He handed Yoda to Amber. Chewbacca to Ross. Kept Darth Vader for himself.

  They put on their masks. The Yoda mask was hot and the eyeholes partially obstructed Amber’s vision. Smelled, too—a musty, plasticky smell that hung in her nostrils. She turned and looked at Ross in his Chewbacca mask. His eyes were jumping around in the mask’s eyeholes, going crazy, the same jittery gaze he always got whenever he was wired on Ritalin. But past that look, she could see the fear in his eyes. The nervous fear.

  The look said everything. They’d been through a lot together. But nothing like this.

  Shane pulled three black handguns from the backpack and handed them out.

  “Should open any minute now,” Shane said, staring out at the bank. “Only one thing left to say.”

  He chuckled dryly.

  “May the force be with us.”

  * * *

  The microwave beeped and Karen Mayo grabbed two bowls of instant oatmeal from inside. She carried the bowls over to the kitchen table and placed one at her seat, the other in front of her son. Joshua sat at the table, eyes glued to his smartphone, wearing pajama pants and the same faded blue MEN’S GOLF CONFERENCE CHAMPS T-shirt he wore to bed most every night.

  “You know the rule,” she said. “No phones at the table.”

  “I know. Just a second.”

  Karen took her seat. Joshua’s eyes remained locked on his phone screen.

  “So, what’d you do while I was out last night?” she asked. “Anything exciting?”

  “Not really.”

  “Just a regular, boring old night?”

  He glanced up at her. Back down at his phone.

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  She already knew something had happened last night; she just didn’t know what. She wanted to give Joshua the chance to come clean and be up front with her. But if he wasn’t going to say anything . . .

  “Actually, while you’re on your phone, maybe you can do me a favor,” she said. “Google ‘How to fix a c
racked car windshield’ for me, will you?”

  He looked up at her, his blue eyes wide with alarm.

  “What?”

  “Your car,” Karen said. “I saw it this morning when I was in the garage. The cracked windshield, the broken grille. What in the world did you do to it last night?”

  He lowered his eyes. Stared at his bowl of oatmeal. Busted. And he knew it.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Doesn’t answer my question. What happened, Joshua?”

  He fidgeted in his seat. His eyes skittered around the room.

  “Well?”

  “Aaron came over to play some Madden,” he said. “He was—”

  “Madden? What is that?”

  “Football. On PS4.”

  “PS4?”

  “PlayStation 4. It’s a video game. He scored a touchdown to beat me and was rubbing it in, joking around. I started chasing him around the house. He ran into the garage and tripped, knocked over that big shelf thing.”

  “Is he all right? Injured?”

  “He’s fine. But the shelf fell onto my car and slammed against the windshield.”

  She gave one of her long sighs, the type she reserved for Joshua anytime he did something that would end up costing her money. It was a reaction they were both familiar with by now. She couldn’t even count the number of times he and his friends had broken something in her house while horsing around; they were like little Tasmanian Devils when they got together. Over the years, they’d shattered windows, put a gaping hole in a trampoline, left countless scuff marks and spills throughout the house. The basketball hoop she bought Joshua for his birthday last summer hadn’t lasted even two weeks before one of his friends jumped off a chair to slam-dunk the ball and snapped the rim right off.

  Now she could add his car grille and windshield to that list.

  “This is wonderful,” she said. “You’ll look great, driving around in a car that looks like it was in a demolition derby.”