One Fatal Mistake Read online

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said. “It was a dumb mistake.”

  “You got the dumb part right.”

  “I feel bad. I do. I promise I’ll pay for it all myself.”

  “With what money?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.”

  “I just wish you would be more responsible,” she said. “I’m not angry. I’m—”

  “Disappointed. I know. I really am sorry, Mom.”

  She decided not to press the issue. What was the point? All that would accomplish was starting the day out on a bad note, maybe even a minor argument. She didn’t need that. Neither of them did.

  * * *

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later, Karen backed out of the driveway and drove through a winding labyrinth of gravel roads, passing empty, frozen farmland and the occasional house until she arrived at the on-ramp for I-380. She eased onto the interstate and drove toward Cedar Rapids, six miles away.

  In the passenger seat, Joshua was bundled up in a thick black winter coat, looking (of course) at his phone. She told him she didn’t want him driving his car until that crack was fixed—she was probably being overcautious, but it looked unsafe.

  “I forgot to ask you,” Karen said. “Did you see that photo I posted to Facebook yesterday? The one for Throwback Thursday?”

  “Yeah,” Joshua said, not looking up from his phone. “Pretty funny.”

  She smiled. “I thought you’d like that one.”

  Every Thursday, she scoured her photo albums to find an old picture of Joshua to post to Facebook for Throwback Thursday. She had endless options to choose from; as he was growing up, few milestones in his life passed without her documenting them with a roll or two of film. She had album after album full of photos of him at various sporting events, photos commemorating a variety of firsts (his first haircut, the first time he lost a tooth, his first days of school), photos of him posing with spreads of the gifts he received for Christmases and birthdays over the years—action figures and Legos when he was younger, golf clubs and balls and tees when he got older.

  Yesterday, she’d posted a photo from Halloween a decade ago. She was dressed in an oversize foam hot dog costume with only her face visible. Right next to her was Joshua, eight years old, dressed as a small ketchup bottle. “Here’s two doggone cuties!” was the caption she’d added to the post.

  “Okay, so it was a little corny, but that’s what moms are for, right?” she said. “Oh, and I’ve got a good one lined up for next week, too. I found all the photos from your sixth birthday party. The one we had at Chuck E. Cheese.”

  Joshua cracked a small smile but kept his eyes on his phone. As she continued driving, Karen stole quick glances out of the corner of her eye at him. Something about him seemed . . . not quite right. As they drove down the interstate, she finally realized what it was.

  “Your coat,” she said. “Why are you wearing that old coat?”

  He looked up from his phone. “What?”

  “Why aren’t you wearing your new coat?” she asked. “The one I got you for Christmas.”

  “I don’t know. Just felt like wearing this one.”

  She shook her head. No use in even trying to make sense of that. He’d begged for a new coat for Christmas—the latest design from some fancy foreign company whose name she couldn’t even pronounce, a big puffy thing with fake animal fur lining the hood. Looked like a coat designed for an Arctic explorer or something. She’d practically flipped when he told her the coat’s four-hundred-dollar cost, but she saved up and bought him one for Christmas anyway.

  And now, barely two months later, he’d gone back to the old coat.

  She drove on down the interstate, slowly approaching Cedar Rapids, where she worked and Joshua attended school.

  “I’ve got a good feeling about today,” she said. “I think today might be the day.”

  “For what?”

  “The day you find out if you got into Clemson. They said they’d get back to you by the end of the month, right? That’s only a few days away. Wouldn’t that be something? We’ve been waiting long enough.”

  No response. She glanced over at Joshua. His phone was gone; now he was blankly staring straight ahead, his thin body slouched in the seat, blond hair combed over his forehead. He looked so gloomy. Off in his own little world. He was about as alert as a zombie most mornings, but there seemed to be something more to it today, something sad and mechanical.

  “You there?” she said, snapping her fingers. “What’s going on with you? You’re so out of it this morning.”

  He glanced toward her. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

  It was more than tiredness, she was sure. Probably had something to do with being eighteen years old and getting a ride to school from Mom. Or maybe it was girl problems. Last week, his girlfriend had broken up with him, and he’d been moping around the house since then. No way she was touching that subject; he’d already been very clear that discussing the breakup with his mother was the last thing in the world he was interested in. She suppressed a chuckle, recalling the look of horror that crossed his face a few days ago when she asked him if he wanted her advice on how to move on after the breakup.

  The car was mostly silent for the rest of the drive. Twenty minutes after leaving their house in the country, she pulled into the parking lot of Jefferson High School.

  “Have a good day,” she said as Joshua exited the car.

  “Yeah. You, too.”

  “Hey. Perk up, J-Bird.”

  He smiled. But like everything else about him this morning, something about it seemed just a little off.

  * * *

  Head hanging, Joshua Mayo walked up to the entrance to Jefferson High School. He was surrounded by students bundled up in winter coats and hats, backpacks slung over their shoulders. Some in groups, some by themselves.

  Inside, he went into the first men’s bathroom he saw. It was empty, thank God. He locked himself in a stall and leaned his forehead against the door, closing his eyes.

  He was exhausted; sleep had been impossible. All evening, the grisly, gruesome details of everything that had happened last night replayed in his mind, repeated endlessly, over and over again. He couldn’t believe that he’d killed a man; it was such an incredible, harrowing thought.

  This morning, he’d checked on his phone every local Web site he could think of, looking for any sort of news about a body being discovered, but there’d been nothing. It wasn’t so surprising. The accident took place deep in the country. Out on a worn, little-traveled gravel path that cut through a wooded region named Hawkeye Wildlife Management Area. A massive twenty-square-mile stretch of forested land full of trees and lakes and not much else. The only reason people went out by the wildlife management area this time of year was to hunt or camp . . . but hunting season had ended months ago and it was far too cold to camp right now.

  He guessed it would be days, maybe even a week or longer, before someone ventured out far enough to discover the body.

  Eventually it would happen, though. And once the body was found, there’d be a police investigation. What would happen then? He truly didn’t know. They’d cleaned up the scene and searched to make sure they didn’t leave anything behind that could link them to the crime, but there was no way to be certain they’d found everything. The moment had been so frantic. He knew the police wouldn’t need much. If they found a piece of fabric, a fingerprint, even something as minor as a footprint, they might be able to connect him to the dead body. And that would be it. His life would be over.

  Joshua exited the stall and walked over to the sink. Washed his hands, splashed some water on his face. Before exiting the bathroom, he grabbed his phone from his pocket. Brought up the text exchange from last night. He typed out a message.

  Rough morning. Couldn’t sleep last night.

 
He waited a minute. The response appeared:

  Me neither. Just remember, we did the right thing. It sounds horrible, but the guy was dead. No way to save him. Calling the police would’ve only gotten us in deep, deep trouble. We didn’t have a choice.

  Joshua stared at the phone. No matter how many times he heard that justification—the guy was already dead; going to the police wouldn’t have saved him—it didn’t make him feel any better about what had happened and the decision they’d made.

  He typed: It’s just tough to handle. Really tough.

  I feel awful, too. Just hang in there. Try to act normal. We’ll talk when I’m free. Later today.

  Joshua texted: K.

  He put his phone in his pocket and walked to the cafeteria. The room was packed with students sitting at tables, waiting for the school day to begin. Warbling, excited chatter was everywhere. He found his friends Freddy and Aaron at a table in the middle of the room and sat down beside them.

  “Just in time,” Aaron said. He was skinny with long, shaggy dark hair and an easy, full smile. “I was about to tell Freddy about this weekend. I’m going on a college visit. Visiting my older brother at Luther. It’s gonna be wild.”

  He started talking about a kegger his brother was going to throw Saturday night, but Joshua could barely pay attention. He looked around the cafeteria, at the groups of students sitting and chatting with friends. Smiling faces and laughter everywhere, gossiping, talking about plans for the weekend. He wondered if he’d ever be able to forget about last night and feel that carefree again.

  “My brother was telling me about this one girl,” Aaron went on. “Monica. Total babe. Said he’s gonna set me up with her.”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket.

  “I found her on Instagram. Check it out.”

  He opened her profile and turned the screen toward them. He quickly scrolled through photos of a cute blond girl in various poses: dressed up for a night out, walking a dog, studying in the library.

  “You’re telling me your brother is setting you up with this girl?” Freddy said.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you think you actually have a chance with her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dude, this is a college chick. She’s, like, way out of your league.”

  “My brother says I’m her type.”

  Freddy laughed. “Her type, sure. Twenty bucks says nothing happens with her.”

  “You’re on.”

  Freddy and Aaron shook on their bet and continued talking. Joshua silently sat there, still thinking about last night. In bed, he’d come up with a story to explain the car damage, the story about Aaron knocking the shelving unit onto the windshield. Wasn’t the best explanation, and there’d been something in his mom’s reaction that told him she didn’t quite believe him, but he hoped the story would hold up.

  “What about your weekend, J?” Aaron asked. “You gonna meet up with Ashley?”

  “No,” Joshua said. “I told you. It’s over.”

  Last week, when his girlfriend had broken up with him, it had been a hot topic of discussion between Freddy and Aaron, whether the breakup would be permanent or not.

  “I still think you’re gonna get back with her,” Freddy said.

  “I bet he won’t,” Aaron said.

  “Twenty bucks?”

  “You’re on.” They shook. Freddy turned to Joshua. “You’re totally getting back with her. Just admit it.”

  Joshua tried to smile, but all he could force through was an uncomfortable wince.

  THREE

  “It’s game time,” Shane said.

  Staring at the bank entrance from half a block away, Amber watched as a skinny old man in a gray security guard uniform appeared behind the bank’s glass entrance doors. Even with the Yoda mask partially obstructing her vision, she could see him pull a set of keys from his pocket, fit one into the door’s keyhole, and unlock the door. He walked back to the bank floor.

  “Open for business,” Shane said. “Let’s go.”

  Amber floored the accelerator for the half block to the bank and haphazardly pulled into one of the vacant stalls by the entrance. They barged out of the car and stormed inside—clad in black, their guns drawn—Darth leading, Chewbacca right behind him, Yoda bringing up the rear.

  Inside, the bank layout was exactly like the photos Shane had taken earlier in the week, the photos he’d had them study constantly over the past few days. An open, spacious lobby with marble floors. A small standing desk for a security guard right inside the entrance. A waiting area and a counter with three teller windows off to the side. In the far back were a few doors leading to offices and the safe.

  Per the plan, Ross went straight to the counter and Shane ran to the rear, their guns in the air. Amber went to the security guard standing by the entrance, the old-timer they’d seen unlock the door moments ago. He was a frail old guy in a gray uniform, a badge that didn’t mean shit pinned to his chest.

  “On the ground,” she yelled, pointing her gun. “Down! Now!”

  She lowered her voice to sound hard and edgy, like a seasoned pro, but it sounded ridiculous to her. Almost comical.

  The security guard stared at her, unmoving. She wondered if he could tell, just from the sound of her voice and the way she held the gun, that he was dealing with a rank amateur who was probably more terrified than he was.

  “I said down, Pops! Don’t make me have to use this.”

  The security guard remained frozen. Just as Amber started to worry seriously—God, am I actually going to have to shoot him?—the security guard hit the ground as if his legs had stopped working.

  Amber focused on the back of his head, her breath hot and heavy in the mask, that same musty scent every time she inhaled. Behind her, she could hear pure chaos.

  A scream.

  A yell.

  Ross’s voice: “Hands in the air!”

  Someone crying.

  Commotion.

  Shane’s voice: “Nobody fucking move.”

  He barked the words, commanding and authoritative. Just from the sound of his voice, anyone could’ve determined that the brutish man in the Darth Vader mask was the one in charge. The ringleader.

  Amber kept the gun pointed at the motionless geezer on the ground and snuck a quick glance behind her. Saw Ross in his Yoda mask, standing in front of the counter, moving his gun between three tellers. Two women, one man—wearing nice button-up shirts and dress pants, all with their hands in the air, looks of openmouthed astonishment on their faces.

  Ross threw a backpack on the counter, directly in front of one of the clerks. “Empty the drawers,” he said. “No dye packs, no tracers.”

  The clerk lowered his hands and began shoveling stacks and assorted bills from his money drawer into the backpack.

  In the rear of the bank, Shane walked a few feet behind two men in suits, his gun pointed at their backs. They disappeared through a thick black door.

  Amber’s eyes went back to the guard. He was still on the ground, facedown, hands splayed out from his body.

  “Please, p-please don’t hurt me,” the guard said in a low voice. “I have a wife. And grandchildren.”

  “Shut up and you’ll see them again,” she said. Again, her lowered, toughened voice sounded absurd to her. An empty threat.

  Seconds that felt like hours passed. She focused on the guard, her heartbeat rocking against her chest. Her face was drenched under the musty mask, sweat dripping into her eyes.

  Ross’s voice yelled out: “Coming your way!”

  A backpack slid over on the ground and stopped a few feet from her. A moment later, Shane appeared from the back, holding another backpack in one hand, still pointing his gun at the two suited men in front of him. Shane slid it over to Amber and it came to a stop near the one Ross had sent over.
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  Two backpacks now.

  Shane led the men in suits behind the counter, next to the clerks. He looked at his wristwatch, then pointed at Amber. He made a circular motion with his index finger.

  It was time. She leaned down so her face was only inches from the back of the security guard’s head. “Count to one hundred; then you can move,” she said. “Don’t try to be a hero.”

  She stuck her gun in the waistband of her pants and hurried over to the two bags on the ground. She grabbed one in each hand and ran past the entrance, back outside. On the town square, there was still no sign of activity; nothing had changed in the minutes they’d been inside.

  She sprinted to the car and sat down in the front seat. Ripped off the Yoda mask and tossed it and the backpacks of money into the backseat. Fired up the engine.

  Panting like she’d just run a marathon, she focused on the bank entrance. She brushed some strands of blond hair from her eyes.

  She waited.

  Waited some more.

  And then the bank door flew open. Chewbacca stormed out, sprinting toward the car with Ross’s long, lean movements. A few steps behind him, Darth Vader followed, Shane rumbling along.

  Amber tensed up. Almost time.

  Ross reached the car first. He threw open the passenger door and jumped inside, slamming the door shut behind him. A moment later, Darth reached the rear door. He pulled on the handle. The door didn’t open. He started frantically yanking on the handle, but the door stayed shut.

  “It’s locked!” Shane screamed, pounding his fist on the window. “Unlock the fucking door!”

  “Go,” Ross said to Amber. “Floor it!”

  Amber slammed her foot on the accelerator and the car sped out of the parking stall, leaving Shane behind. Looking in the rearview mirror, Amber watched Shane chase them for half a block, then give up. He stood in the middle of the road, staring at them from behind the Darth Vader mask, watching the car disappear. Perhaps he was just now realizing what had happened: he’d been double-crossed. Screwed out of the money.