Free Let's Play Make-Believe by James Patterson

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.”
    “Listen, Marty, we have to take a deep breath and think this through. You want to go to a road that will photograph us entering and ping off my SunPass as we pay the toll? We need to stay on the back roads, or at most, get on I-95.”
    I could see that my words were registering with him. He said, “Do you think anyone saw us? It just sort of happened. I didn’t even know what I was doing.”
    I felt like I was about to throw up. I’d never been involved in anything at all like this. I had talked to the cops more in the last couple of weeks than I had in my whole life combined. If I’d been counting on Marty being my rock, I could see I’d made a mistake. Even if I went to the police right now, I’d have to explain why I’d driven all the way up to Vero Beach with Marty and why we’d both fled the scene. This wouldn’t play out well in any courtroom. Now we had to jump in with both feet.
    Marty turned onto one of the main roads and then took the entrance ramp to I-95. I didn’t want to question his every move; he was already so far over the edge that I even wondered if he might pull the gun and use it on himself or maybe even on me. If we got stopped by a cop now, it would all be over. There was no way he’d be able to look calm with the way he was acting.
    “Speed up and get into the center lane. You’re drawing attention,” I snapped when I looked at the speedometer and saw that he was only going forty-eight miles an hour. Cars whizzed past us like we were parked.
    Marty mumbled something as he got into the flow of traffic. He was still staring straight ahead, and I tried to figure out how to get the gun from him. That would be a good first step. Eliminate the possibility of more murders or a suicide.
    I leaned over and patted him on the shoulder and rubbed his neck for a minute. He didn’t respond. The guy was a wreck. Then I let my hand drift down between the seat and his back until I felt the grip of the pistol tucked into his belt on the right side of his back.
    I didn’t say anything; I just pulled out the small semiautomatic pistol and slipped it into the console.
    Marty saw where I put the gun but didn’t say anything. I felt like I might have relieved some of the pressure he was feeling by taking the gun from him.
    I said, “Marty, we’re going to have to come up with a decent alibi to get through this.”
    “I know, I know. I still can’t believe what just happened.”
    “The last place anyone can prove we visited was Gulfstream Park. I think I have one of the betting slips in my purse.”
    “I have a whole bunch crammed in my pocket.”
    “Good, good. We just say we stayed at the park until later in the afternoon, then took I-95 back to Palm Beach. We’ll make sure someone sees us as soon as we get into town. We can go to the Palm Beach Grill and have a drink. If we hurry, we can be there by five thirty and it will match up with leaving the racetrack about four.” I waited for some kind of response from my semicomatose boyfriend. Then I said, “We’re going to have a drink and gather ourselves. We won’t mingle with anyone unless we have to, but we at least want the bartenders