Shovel (cont’d)

I sat in the car for ages. Couldn’t possibly bring myself to get out. Before I knew it, I was sprawled across the back seat, twisted like a pretzel, half falling into the gap between the seats. A hard knock had rapt on my window, startling me awake. Somehow, it was morning. I hit my head on the window handle hard as I went to get up. I looked out the window and there was Clive, staring at me through the glass.


‘You’d rather sleep in the car?’


I straightened and struggled to get out of the car, scrambling to free my feet of the raincoat I had used as a blanket. We had had a fight last night before I left work. ‘I must have dozed off.’


Clive’s eyebrows rose high. ‘In the backseat?’


‘I was really tired,’ I offered by way of explaining.


‘Why do you look like you went mud wrestling last night?’ He eyed me from toe to the top of my hair. I went rigid. How did I look? Was I looking suspicious? I mean, yes, I had muddy clothes and all, but no one would pin a murder on me, right? Right?


‘I went to interview for a story outback, and the tyre got bogged in the downpour,’ I lied. Big deal. I wasn’t about to tell him the truth, whether he was my soul mate or not. 


‘Why didn’t you call road side assist?’ 


Shit! My phone! The last I remember of my phone was when Clive had called me in the middle of my digging session. What did I do after that? I patted myself down, every pocket I had.

 

‘You lost your phone?’


I looked up, utterly panicked. ‘Yes.’


‘Where did you last use it?’


An image of being pinned down by the very thing I was trying to bury sprung to mind. Shit. 

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