Logan paced around the still, silent form of the child he’d just killed and tried to pull some sort of plan of action from the maelstrom of frantic thoughts swirling in his head.
Okay, so I cant take him to the police. Not even an honest cop would believe this story, much less a crooked one who already hates me.
He looked around. No sign of the bullet embedded in any nearby trees–they’d never find it. He’d have to move the kid somewhere else, though, somewhere far enough from where the shot was fired to make sure.
He did so, dragging the body on a circuitous, bloodhound-confusing route through the woods by its feet and feeling like the worst human being on the planet every time its open, bleeding skull pinged against a rock.
What choice did he have, though? He couldn’t very well…
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