Cover Your Eyes (Morgans of Nashville 1)

Jonas studied her. “She’s so still.”

“Yes.”

Seconds passed as Jonas stared at the carnage. Slowly the brightness in his gaze dimmed. The near bursting bubble of anticipation had popped with one sharp prick of a bullet.

“You’re feeling let down,” Madness soothed.

Jonas looked at the gun and the woman. “How did you know?”

“Because I feel it too. All the planning, thinking and dreaming. All gone in an instant.”

“Yes.”

“And just like that, it’s over.” The snap of two fingers echoed in the room.

Jonas flinched. “I thought it would last longer.”

“It never does. It’s always over in a blink.”

Jonas shook his head. “I thought there’d be more.”

“I told you, anticipation trumps the moment.” Breathe in. Breathe out. “That’s why I made us wait.”

“I can’t believe it’s over.”

A clap of hands made Jonas start and look up. “Time to go. Time to destroy the evidence.”

Jonas sat on the bed and took the woman’s cooling, still hand in his. “I won’t see her again.”

“No.”

“Can’t we just stay a little longer? I don’t want to leave her.”

Madness moved toward Jonas and gently pulled the gun from his hands. “We have to go. We need to destroy this evidence and leave.”

Tears welled in Jonas’s eyes. “I don’t want it to be over.” “No one ever does.” Taking Jonas by the hand, it took little strength to disarm him and guide him toward the door. One last glance back at the room, the strike of another match, a quick toss and the room immediately was ablaze. Quickly, the flames generated white, then gray billowing smoke that thickened and blackened to a dense inky shade. Smoke and flame moved up the walls, over the ceiling and back down to the floor again in a deadly whirlpool.

If they stayed, they’d see the flames devour the floor, walls, ceiling and, of course, the woman. It all would be reduced to cinders in fifteen minutes. There’d be some forensic data to retrieve, but not much. The body, perhaps, and the bullet. But not their DNA.

Out the front door, they moved into the darkness toward Jonas’s car, a station wagon. The actors always drove to the scene, never the master, in case a witness happened to look.

Jonas fired up the engine, revving the accelerator.

“Remember, drive slowly. We don’t want to be noticed.”

“Right.” Jonas gripped the wheel and drove.

The rearview mirror gave a perfect view of the flames consuming the house. In the distance, fire engines wailed. Someone had already called 9-1-1.

“Is that the cops?” Jonas asked.

“No. The fire department.” They rounded a corner and the fire faded from view.

In silence, they drove for several minutes before Jonas gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Can we do it again? I want to do it again!”

“Not right away. We have to wait.” Anticipation burned under the yoke of Reason’s screams to be freed.

But like Jonas, Madness didn’t want to wait. Madness had been starved for too long and would not allow Reason to dictate terms.

Lights from Broadway in Nashville’s music district flashed across Jonas’s face as they made their way toward the crowds of tourists. “I don’t want to wait.”

“Let’s get a drink.”

“There’s no parking this time of night.”

“I know a place. An alley.”

Jonas frowned.

“You’ve trusted me this far. Have I ever let you down?”

“No.”

“Then trust me.”