Page 90 of Kings of Sherwood

Hell, they might sleep better.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” John tucks the front flap behind the stack of papers, revealing the neat printout, produces a pen from his jacket pocket. “There’s always odds and ends. Best have my t’s crossed and i’s dotted. And you wouldn’t name anyoneelsesole beneficiary of any future receipts, would you? A dead great-aunt. A life insurance policy. A refund on a parking ticket.”

He narrows his piggy eyes at me and lumbers to my side, takes my chin in his damp hand. I resist, straining and craning my neck as far as it’ll go, just to not let himtouchme, but it’s pointless.

He can, he will. He wants me to know that.

“And a pretty face like this, well.” He looks back at the sheriff. Shares a little chuckle. “Tragic story. Nice girl, wrongfully killed. They’ll have you on every news special in the country. Documentaries. Those what-do-you-call-ems—”

“Podcasts,” supplies the sheriff.

“Yeah. The whole nine.”

“TV movie.” Wheatley rubs his chin. “I wanna be played by Dennis Quaid.”

“Denny better pack on a few ell-bees, then, playin’ your wide ass.”

Guffaws, making me sick to my stomach. My eyes flutter shut. They are joking as they’re about to kill me.

“Anyway. You just gotta sign.”

My eyes fly open. “Are you fucking crazy?”

John hauls off and backhands me. I see stars. It smarts.

“Don’t you backtalk me now!” he roars. Breathing hard, he draws back. Composes himself. Ever the southern gentleman. Even as I can feel blood trickling out of one nostril.

He smooths his hair. “I don’t like that it’s come to this either. But I’m afraid you’ve really give me no choice, girl.”

“I’m. Not. Signing.” I repeat. The blood from my nose crawls to my lips, wet and sticky, and I suck it into my mouth. Spit at his feet.

“You little—”

But he checks himself this time. I glare at him.

“What difference does it make, anyway? Just forge my signature if you’re going to murder me.”

John winces at the m-word. Well, good. I’m shaking, talking to him like this, but I have nothing to lose.

And secretly, deep deep down, I’m hoping. Praying.

That a wolf will crash through that tiny blacked-out window.

A dragon will melt down that door.

A bear will maul their sorry faces off.

And a fox will tear these things off my wrists.

Hands. I’d have to have my hands free to sign. Maybe—

It’s stupid to do it, even so. Bad to worse, probably. But I have no other ideas.

“You think we’re not going to put this through every official channel?” Now the sheriff smirks. “Notarized. Clean and proper. Drag us onto the stand and we will not even have to lie—that girl signed that will.”

It smells like bullshit to me. But I see the gleam in John’s eye, and I suddenly get it—maybe.

He wants control of me. To the very end.

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