White Space Season 2

about.
    Why are they here?
    Do they know I’m here?
    Should I just stay put?
    Do I try and get away?
    Milo turned to the window. He could climb out and drop to the ground. A second story fall straight into the grass shouldn’t hurt too much. He went to the window, chills through his body as he stepped across the blood-caked carpet, and pulled at the window. It wouldn’t budge.
    Fu-uck!
    Footsteps echoed up the stairs. A man said, “Yeah, this is where it happened.”
    Shit, they’re coming in here!
    Milo’s heart pounded faster. Cold copper coated his tongue as he looked around the room. His only option was racing to the closet and hoping like hell they wouldn’t open it.
    He dashed across the room, tore the door open, slipped inside, then closed it quietly behind him just as the two men entered the room.
    “Yeah, this is where we found the girl. She was holding onto her dead brother’s hand. Fucking heartbreaking.”
    “Shit,” the second man said.
    Milo couldn’t tell if they were Hamilton or Paladin officers.
    The list felt hot in his hand, like maybe it was what they were looking for. Unless they were also there for the flash drive. In either case, he couldn’t let them find him in the closet clutching the list. It would look many kinds of bad, and Milo could easily imagine himself as a sudden suspect, a collaborator in the shootings. Weren’t the police always hoping to find a second suspect they could charge in these sorts of cases?
    He carefully slid it into his back pocket, praying he’d be able to safely flee the house, and find Don.
    “And this is where Henderson offed himself?”
    “Yup.”
    “Fucking scumbag.”
    “Amen.”
    “What about over here?” one of the men said, walking toward the closet.
    Oh shit, they’re going to open the door.
    Please don’t open the door, please don’t …
    Shattering glass, which sounded like it came from out in front of the house, suddenly grabbed their attention.
    A pause, then, “Shit, what was that?”
    Footsteps toward the window — “You see anything?”
    “Our car is on fire!”
    “What?”
    The men ran from the room then thudded downstairs.
    Milo had no idea what to do — stay and hope the men didn’t return, or seize the opportunity while they were distracted and get the hell out of Alex’s house, hoping nobody else was waiting downstairs.
    Milo went with Option B and ran as if his life depended on it. He raced over the blood, through the hall, then down the stairs, feet loudly clomping with every step, giving no regard to his volume, banking on the officers still being occupied out front.
    Once downstairs, Milo raced toward the back door, every inch feeling like a mile, certain that each second would be the one where “Freeze!” was being screamed behind him.
    Milo reached the back door, opened it, and ran straight into the same giant black dude who followed Jon Conway around like a pit bull.
    Milo fell to the ground, losing a yelp. As he fell on his ass and managed to look up, Conway’s friend reached down and held his hand out for Milo.
    “Come with me,” he said, request less than demand.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 7 — Jon Conway

    Jon zipped along the coastline, smiling, even though his destination was anywhere but happy. He couldn’t believe he was driving a Blacklander of all things. Toyota’s evolution of the Blacklander (no gas!), was by all accounts an awesome SUV, and reminded him of his father’s old Land Cruiser — the first vehicle Jon drove up and along the island’s steepest hills.
    Jon was willing to drive the Toyota to prove he didn’t need a Porsche, but of course he still missed flying down the coast in a car that burned gas without apology. He didn’t need a 924 Spyder — though there was nothing in the world he’d rather drive. Hell, even a Boxter would do. Not that the two cars were the same, but their weight and diameter were similar, and like every other Porsche, the Boxter’s action was perfectly weighted and ridiculously efficient. No wasted motion, not from hand to shifter, or brake to throttle.
    If he could bear Cassidy’s sour look, he would have had one sent to the island. But he couldn’t, and was about as willing to drive a car from the Conway’s family garage as he was to schedule a daily root canal — even though the old bathtub in the garage was technically his.
    He figured he would rent something, but nearly every experience Jon had ever had with a rental car was bullshit. It was like