Before the situation catches up to him and he starts shouting, I push him off of me and deliver one sharp punch to the back of the head. Done in a matter of ten seconds, not a single peep out of his mouth. My arm snaps out and I catch him by the back of his suit jacket before he can face-plant the cold, muddy ground. Out cold and bleeding profusely. I need to staunch the wounds before he loses too much blood. But first, I slide the rose from my mouth, and dip the petals in the crimson spilling from his wounds. Can’t have my little mouse thinking there aren’t consequences for letting another man touch what’s mine. She’ll find out soon enough that I don’t make idle threats. I rest his body against the porch for a second while I walk up and throw the rose at her doorstep. I’m too pissed to do much else. And then I grab his body and start the brief trek through the woods where my Mustang awaits. By the time the cops get here, it’Il be too late. A blood trail will lead them to tire tracks, and they might be able to narrow down the make and model based on the tread impressions, but the evidence will run cold after that. It will all be destroyed soon enough. The cops won’t know which direction to look. And Archie’s family will assume their enemies caught up to him. And they wouldn’t be wrong. They just won’t be able to guess who until I’m standing in front of them with a knife in their necks.