"They're running, they're running! SHOOT NOW!" shouted a man with a rifle, hunting in the forest with a group of three or four.
"Dammit Joe, fuck you!" said one of them.
"What?! What'd you just say to me?!" Joe snapped back sharply. "Why are you putting the fucking blame on me?!" he finished, ending with a question.
"Why am I putting the blame on you? Why am I fucking putting blame on you!! You let that fucking deer go!"
"I've fucking told you, you fucking dumbass! It wasn't on purpose!"
The two of them were having a heated argument but weren't moving from their spots. A third person stepped in: "Hey! What's done is done, there's no point in fighting anymore." Joe turned his back and took a step or two forward. He put his hands on his waist and started taking deep breaths. Anger was visible all over his face, and he was struggling to stop himself from attacking the guy yelling at him. For a brief moment, the group of four fell silent. The arguing two were trying to calm down, while the other two had no idea what to do or how to handle the situation.
Suddenly, a police officer arrived—not alone. He came with a team and stood in front of them. The hunters froze when they saw the cops and reluctantly answered their questions.
"Who told you it was legal to hunt in this forest? On what authority do you think you can hunt here?" said the middle-aged officer, whose hair and beard were streaked with white. He looked like the chief inspector of the team.
"Sir, we're sorry. We'll leave right away. We didn't even hit anyone," said one of the hunters.
"What's your name, huh?" the chief asked harshly.
"Cameron, sir," he replied.
"Show me your IDs. We'll process you," said the chief. But before he could even finish his sentence or take a breath, the four-man team suddenly ran. They scattered in different directions, dragging the pursuing police behind them.
"Catch them! Catch them! They're running! Call for backup!"
Brian sat in his car, heart pounding like it was about to explode. "It's all over," he muttered to himself, feeling so helpless that he couldn't even access his usual inner voice.
"Open the trunk, I told you! Can't you hear me, man?!" the officer yelled from behind. Just as Brian was about to press the button, a gunshot rang out, and the officer suddenly grabbed his radio. Brian was surprised but secretly relieved.
"Come on, come on! Fucking let me go already, come on!" he muttered under his breath. He deliberately avoided confronting the officer because if he spoke, the officer might refocus and check the trunk again. Brian took deep, steadying breaths when suddenly a voice came over the radio:
"Dispatch, this is Unit 12-45. We've got multiple suspects hunting illegally in the forest. They've abandoned their rifles and are fleeing on foot, heading deeper into the woods. Requesting immediate backup and K9 units, over."
"Shit!" muttered the officer, but then responded to the radio. He was about to go to his car when he remembered Brian. He turned to him: "You're free to go, be careful, don't cause any trouble," he said and got into his car.
Brian drove away, still shaking from fear and shock. He was so overwhelmed that he pulled over. His hands trembled uncontrollably. "Fuck," he muttered, pressing his head against the steering wheel and taking deep breaths. "You're fine, Brian, you're just fine," he told himself. He lifted his head and immediately noticed how conspicuous he looked—windows down, head on the steering wheel—it was impossible not to attract attention. He quickly pulled himself together, fixed his hair in the rearview mirror, and drove home.
When he got home, he got out of the car and went inside immediately. The smell of the corpse in the trunk would cling to the car and draw neighborhood attention. He set his daughter down and tossed a few toys in front of her to keep her occupied, then sat in the chair, hands on his head, staring at the floor, still in shock. Suddenly, he lifted his head, scanning the room. Observing the details around him, he reminded himself not to give up.
Sitting next to Vivian, Brian thought about how much he had changed into a terrible person. Deep down, he knew where all this would lead. No matter what he did, taking a mother's, a real daughter's life was unforgivable.
"Hey," Brian said as he descended the stairs. Vivian lay there, mouth, hands, and feet bound, extremely uncomfortable. Brian rushed over and removed her restraints.
"Hey, hey, are you okay?" he asked. Vivian shifted into a sitting position, remaining still. After a few seconds, she slapped him hard in the face—the echo in the empty basement making it worse. Then she stared into his eyes, making no sound, her bruised, tear-filled eyes just looking at him. Her arms and legs felt numb, as if she had no control over her own body. Brian didn't react to the slap; he lowered his head and knelt before her.
"I'm sorry, but this had to happen," he said. Vivian didn't respond, making him feel intensely uncomfortable with her gaze. He couldn't take it, so he stood up, turned his back, hands on his hips, head down.
"What have I done, how did I turn into such a person?" Brian asked himself. The room's silence pressed down like a heavy blanket, his desperation mixing with Vivian's hatred and fear, filling the air like an expensive perfume from abroad.