“Holy shit, what have I done?” Marty kept chanting that same phrase like it was some kind of mantra that would bring him back to reality. Or maybe it would keep him from reality. Because at this moment, as we tried to gain some perspective and figure out what we would do next, we knew that we were both involved in a murder.
My car swerved as Marty overreacted to a car pulling up to a side street.
I screamed, “What the hell are you doing? We need to draw less attention to ourselves, not more!” I immediately regretted being so sharp. I was on edge, and looking at Marty, who was perspiring uncontrollably and leaning into the steering wheel, I knew he was, too.
He took the turn onto Kings Highway, and I knew we’d be cutting through some odd little neighborhoods just north of Fort Pierce.
“Where are you going?” I asked with the stress still evident in my voice.
“The turnpike.”
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