The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson, #12)

by Darynda Jones

I Ubered it to Juarez, which is apparently much easier than Ubering it out of Juarez. It took me a while to explain to the driver, who’d picked me up in the middle of nowhere wearing a little black dress, ankle-high boots, and a lot of dirt why I needed to hide in his trunk, but my passport and other paraphernalia were in my purse in the very Jeep I was headed toward. At least it was if they didn’t take it, but since the whole point was to prove I’d gone to Mexico and gotten myself dragged off and killed, never to be seen again, it would’ve been stupid for them not to leave it. I promised him a huge tip, as in four figures, if he’d let me rest in his trunk. He was worried we’d get caught, but I assured him we wouldn’t. If they did happen to open the trunk, which was unlikely, I’d just shift onto the celestial plane. I’d vanish. He totally didn’t believe me, though. Not the part where it was unlikely they would open the trunk but the part where I could shift onto the celestial plane and become Invisigirl. Strange how nobody believed that shit.