Bobby's Daughter
I do not own anything you recognize…
Chapter Eight
After clearing up the misconception that I do not know how to shot a gun, we did a little more research. Actually, he did it while I made STRONG coffee and scrambled eggs with bacon. That'd do us over for awhile.
"So, you never told me," I said, putting the eggs on a plate as he went over the papers he printed out at the kitchen table. "How'd you ruin that body?"
His eyebrows shot up and he looked at me, amused. "What?"
"Your car."
"Oh." He looked down to his papers. "There was someone in the street and I swerved to miss 'em."
"Really? Could it be our ghost?" I placed his plate in front of him and he shoved his papers aside before digging in.
"How'd you know?"
"My dad did teach me a few things when he was around. Basic stuff though. So what's with our ghost?" I sat across from him.
"It says that the serial killer, Ryan Gallagher, chose men who could not fight back. Several children, one elderly man, and disabled men. Sick puppy that he is." Dean said, getting lost in his own thoughts.
"Dean."
"Yeah?"
"Continue."
"Oh, okay, right. Uh… it says here that he kept them alive for at least seventy-two hours. He made them beg to die." Well, this would be fun. Hopefully we all wouldn't get captured. That wouldn't be fun at all. "The bodies were recovered in his home just off of Clinton Road."
"Do I wanna know how?"
"Limbs found one place, heads the other."
"Thanks, Dean," I said, pushing my plate away from me.
"You asked." He shrugged.
"Did not!"
"Did too."
"Did not!"
"Did too.
"Did too."
"Did not." He looked confused. "Wait, what'd I just say?"
"You agreed with me," I smiled. "Good boy." I petted him on the head as he grumbled. "Let's get going Dean," I said, picking up my plate and his. "We've got a lot of work to do."
Pop References:
One: Ryan Gallagher is a singer. Country music I believe.