She pictured him dead on the brown motel bedspread, the front of his white polo soaked with blood, eyes open, staring at her. She couldn't look at him any longer and grabbed the end of the bedspread and pulled it up and over him, thinking what a shock it would be when the maid came in the next morning and found him. Karen didn't want to leave him like that but what choice did she have? This wasn't a Hitchcock film where you rolled the victim up in a rug and dragged him down the stairs to a car in the middle of the night, and put him in the trunk. Karen knew the police would be all over the motel, talking to people in the rooms and checking the plates of every car in the parking lot. Why hadn't she thought of that before? Because she didn't imagine shooting Johnny or expect Bobby and Lloyd to show up. Her simple plan was unraveling, spinning out of control. She'd brought the phone in from the bedroom and called her sister. "Hello," Virginia said.
