I WAS STARING at the keys, now miraculously back in my palm, when Peter’s police radio let out a long beep. A voice on the radio began chattering something I couldn’t decipher. Peter cocked his head, listening intently.

“What is it?” I said.

“Wait, wait,” he said, leaning back into the car, listening.

“Unbelievable,” he said when the radio voice stopped. He shook his head as he turned, his face crestfallen.

“What?” I said.

“Your boyfriend’s Camaro just came up over the radio as stolen. He told dispatch that not only did you take his car without permission, but that you’re drunk. First thing the DTs will do when they pull up is ask for all the overnight calls that came in. Next, they’ll want to see your boyfriend’s car, which for sure has blood on it. Which leaves no way out of this after all. I can’t believe this. I actually can’t let you go. I have to call this in now.”

Alex had called his car in as stolen? After what he did to me with Maureen, he actually called the cops on me? I felt incredibly weak suddenly. I felt like lying down on the asphalt next to the cop car and closing my eyes. Instead I just started to cry.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Peter said, putting his hand on my shoulder. He stared at me, his blue eyes as big as saucers. “Please don’t cry. I think we can fix this. I have an idea,” he said.

Peter made a dismal face as he slowly glanced over his shoulder at the fallen man, then back at me.

“We could get rid of Ramón’s body,” he said.

“WHAT?” I said, wincing.

“I live a few blocks from here. I have a boat at my house,” Peter said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

My leg started hopping again like a Mexican jumping bean.