by Dawn Klehr
I felt his eyes on me, trying to understand what I was doing out here.
“What are you doing?” he finally asked.
“Investigating,” I said, pretending to be preoccupied.
“The accident?” he asked.
I nodded, still messing with my tape measure.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think it was an accident.”
Boom!
“First of all, the skid marks on the road don’t seem to match the police report,” I began. “It looks like my sister swerved up there.” I pointed. “Not down here at the point of impact.”
I continued reading off my mental script, the same story I’d given Travis. I was so focused on my delivery that I missed the cues. The signal that he was going to vomit.
So he was a little weak, then.
Good to know. Good to know.
Johnny had turned to the side and heaved up his lunch. He looked apologetic, like it was his fault his body betrayed him.
I handed him a tissue from my bag. Waiting just a minute or two to let him recover, I jumped back to the task at hand. I had him on the edge and it was time to lure him in.
“What? It hasn’t crossed your mind?” I asked.
He shrugged.
Hmm. Doesn’t question things.
“Don’t you think the circumstances surrounding the accident are odd?” I asked.
“What do you mean by odd?”
Needs things spelled out.
“Suspect?” I offered.
“What are you saying?” he asked, his jaw tightening with each word.
“I’m saying it wasn’t an accident, as I mentioned when you first started grilling me,” I said, and I went back to my note-taking.
Then he started pushing me with more questions. He wanted details. That was a promising sign.
In the weeks ahead, I kept Johnny on a need-to-know basis. Giving him bits and pieces of information that kept his suspicions up, kept him hungry for more. We spent the rest of the time sitting on the side of the road, talking. I learned that’s what he responded to most of all—our conversations. He craved it.
To keep moving forward, I needed ammunition. I needed to know how to get a boy to do my bidding, so I went into Brit’s arsenal. She always had them eating from her tiny hand.
I used it all. From the overplayed hard-to-get, to unwavering attention, Johnny ate it up. Occasionally I’d throw him a bone with a touch, a smile, or a flash of the eyes that hinted toward something wicked.
It worked.
The Elements of a Crime:
#2 Conduct
Conduct (actus reus) refers to the objective element of a crime. Actus reus is the Latin term for “guilty act.” When a guilty act and guilty mind are proven together, beyond a reasonable doubt, it equates to criminal liability. So for actus reus to occur, there has to have been a criminal act—a bodily movement, voluntary or involuntary.
So, you ask, was there a bodily movement—a guilty act—for me?
Yeah, you could say there was definitely one of those.
There were a few of them, actually.
And when those acts were done, I watched someone die.
One minute, I had someone’s life in my hands. The next, I stood by as it slipped away.
22
Johnny
I carry Ethan down the hill to our designated place. His breathing is deep, his body completely pliant, draped over my shoulder. Becca shines the light on the path. Actually, it’s not really a path. We’ve been down here several times before to get the room ready, but we always park in a different place and walk there using a new route.
I take baby steps downward, shifting my weight to balance Ethan on my shoulder. He smells better now—after Becca changed his pants like a goddamn baby. I wonder if this is what she had in mind when she told me to add a change of clothes to my list.
Becca is always one step ahead of everyone. Cunning, I guess you’d call her. Everything is calculated and planned out to the last detail. And she’s so confident, you can’t help believe whatever she says. Following her … it’s easy.
We walk into the dank, moldy building. We chose the old library because it’s secluded and hard to get to due to the fact that the nearby parking lot is caved in. From the outside, most of the structure has held together, but inside, it’s crumbling. The only way to get down here is to walk down a steep hill.
I haul the younger Kent brother inside. We walk along the decaying walls and over the piles of books still scattered all over the floor. I can’t help think about the irony—our story is definitely novel-worthy.
There’s one tiny room in the building—must’ve been for the librarian or office workers—that’s still intact. Ceiling, floor, four walls, and a door.
After I’d brought Becca out here and she approved, we came back out to reinforce the door with locks and such.
I place Ethan on the bed. My arms tighten as I lower him down, careful not to drop him too hard. Becca goes to work on his restraints. After he’s all nice and secure, she gives him another dose of drugs and closes the door.
I rest my head on it.
When a whimper comes from the other side, I reach for the doorknob.
Becca’s hand clamps down over mine.
“You can’t let him see us, Johnny,” Becca spits. “No witnesses. We leave him. The rope is long enough for him to grab water and food. And he can reach the bucket in the corner. I’m sorry, but this is the way it has to be. The new dose will kick in soon anyway. It should carry him until the morning.”
Ethan’s voice rings out in the decaying space. It’s high and sounds like gibberish, but if I strain I know he’s calling for his mommy. It cuts right through my gut.
I don’t blame him for it. You always hear about people—even the toughest gangsters or soldiers—calling for their mother when in danger or facing death. It’s natural. Innate. That is what Ethan is doing right now. And while I hope he’s not really in that kind of danger at our hands, I can’t be sure what direction Becca’s going to lead us. All I know for sure is that we’re stuck in this until tomorrow.
Suddenly, I want to call out for my mommy.
I look through the door, unable to help myself. We put a reverse peephole in so we could monitor Travis and freak him out when needed during our interrogation. There are actual manuals online that teach interrogation techniques. We were quick studies. After careful consideration, we opted out of the Guantanamo-style waterboarding and decided on some more psychological mind-fucking instead.
I watch as Ethan struggles. He’s now strapped to the bed—one arm and one leg. We purchased state-of-the-art confinements, also found online. Becca set up a post office box, used various names, and paid with those advance-type debit cards. She ordered everything online and had it delivered. It wasn’t hard.
Girl could be a master criminal if she wanted to be. I would never want to be on her bad side.
Ethan’s balled up in a pile—his head tipped back and his lower lip twitching. But his breathing is still deep. He has a few minutes in this hell hole before he dozes again. I can see him slowly slipping away.
Becca is messing with the pre-paid cell phone—contacting Travis or working some part of the plan, no doubt.
“What are you going to tell him?” I ask. Taking Ethan wasn’t impulsive, so I’m sure she’s just working the steps at this point.
“I’m using the gambling angle,” she says.
During our stalking, we discovered that Travis has a lot of enemies. Not only does he game, he gambles. And he doesn’t exactly have the best reputation in the inner circles.
“I’m a disgruntled player and I know he’s been cheating,” Becca says. “I’m demanding he gives me my money back or his brother pays the price.”
Poor Ethan. I can’t take my
eyes off the kid.
We set up the place with battery-operated lighting we bought from a camping outfitter. Very important to see during an interrogation. Now I’m glad we have the light for Ethan.
There’s this piece of skin hanging from his face. It must be from when he slammed into the wall in his struggle with Becca. His flesh must’ve caught on the brick. The end of the skin wiggles when he moves. I’m glued to my spot watching him … just watching.
“Jesus, Becca,” I say as we walk to the car. “I didn’t sign up for this! It was supposed to be a one-night job.”
“Things change, Johnny.”
“No. Not things. You. You’ve changed, and you’re cutting me out of this entire operation. And now you expect me to be okay leaving this kid in here. It’s twisted.”
“I’m not trying to cut you out,” she says, reaching out to stop me. “I knew if I told you that you’d get cold feet and you wouldn’t want to finish what we started.”
She’s right about that.
Becca lets out a long sigh, clearly getting frustrated with me. Then she swallows and tries again. “The probability of Travis escalating, doing something even bigger than causing an accident that killed two people, is about 90 percent. Potentially higher if he continues not to get caught. The question isn’t whether there will be a next time. The question is when will be the next time.”
Strange. I’m beginning to wonder the same thing about Becca. What will she do the next time someone crosses her? What will I do? We’ve already gone so far over the line of what’s right, I don’t know how we could go back.
Becca doesn’t wait for my response to her argument. She continues on, even more committed than before.
“He needs to be brought to justice,” she says, accentuating each word. “For himself. For us. For our families. I know how cruel it seems to take Ethan, but we’re saving lives here. We’re the good guys. Just remember that.”
But can you, Becca? Can you?
I know I should walk out on this plan. Let Ethan go. Tell Becca to go to hell. But something holds me there and I do what I always do. I go along with it. Conscience be damned.
We drive home and my leg bounces up and down to a little beat. I’ve now chewed my lip raw. Becca rest her hand right above my knee and squeezes. Typically, I’d be thrilled by any sign of affection from my girl. Right now it only sickens me.
As she pulls into my driveway she says, “I’ll handle everything with Travis. You don’t have to be involved at all. I’ll check on the pawn tomorrow before school to make sure he’s okay.”
“The pawn,” I repeat. “Nice touch, by the way. So what do you call me when nobody’s listening? Right Hand, Slackie, Slave ? Oh, I know: Accomplice ?”
“I think that’d be the other way around, don’t you?” Her brows are all knitted together as she faces me.
“How do get that?”
“Oh no you don’t, Johnny. Now that we’re in deep, you’re going to start blaming me? You are the one who came up with this entire revenge plot.”
“What are you talking about?”
She laughs. “Let’s make him pay. I won’t let him walk around free after what he did. I’ll get a gun. Ring any bells?”
It does, but the memories are jumbled, and that makes me even queasier.
“Now’s not the time for selective memory. You’re in this, Johnny. I can carry most of the load, but you have to help me. You just help me get him to our next point. Help me get him where he needs to be. Help me get the confession and then we’re done.”
“Where does Travis need to be?” I ask, desperate to be done. “And when?”
“Tomorrow evening. I’ll take you to the new location and we can work it all out after school.”
I’m now suspiciously on the outside of this plan, though I wonder if I ever really was a participant or have always just been Becca’s bitch. The serious doubt is beginning to kick in. Not just about this last hiccup but the whole thing. What the hell am I doing anyway? It could be a blessing that I haven’t been as involved—I could go to the cops right now. I could make a deal and bargain for my life.
These thoughts come to a halt when I catch the way Becca’s looking at me. It’s like she can see right through me. She knows what I’m doing—the second-guessing. She can sense the betrayal.
“This is why I did what I did,” she whispers, looking almost hurt.
I want to believe she is. That she actually feels. But that’s the thing about Becca; there’s always something off.
“You always need a back-up because people will turn on you the first chance they get,” she says, and I know she’s referring to me.
My stomach squeezes in on itself.
“Oh, and it’s love, by the way.” She wraps her arms around herself and looks up at me.
“Love?” I ask, confused.
“The name I call you by when nobody’s listening,” she says, going right for the jugular before turning away.
23
Becca
Travis was watching me, like any worthy opponent would. I saw him, lurking there on the blurred periphery edges of my daily life. He watched Johnny too. I had no choice but to get to work … and fast. Still, I couldn’t afford any mistakes. I had to be stay steps ahead.
In this chess match, everyone in our world played a part. I thought of Ethan as the pawn, Cassie and Ava as the knight and bishop. The rook was Johnny—the protector, but also the piece that was most powerful in the endgame. The king represented my family, which left the most important piece of any game (the queen) to me, so I could crush my opponent’s mind.
I started tutoring Johnny in exchange for his help. He was the key to my new plan. The only way I could go up against Travis.
I got the better end of my deal with Johnny, though. I enjoyed tutoring him; it wasn’t hard. He wasn’t a lost cause like so many teachers had thought throughout the years. He just had what they’d call a few learning disabilities. Personally, I liked the way his brain worked. I liked a lot of things about him.
One afternoon, we were at his kitchen table working on basic geometry—complementary and supplementary angles. It was rudimentary material that Johnny just couldn’t master.
He was particularly anxious, rocking in his chair, watching me instead of the equation I was writing on paper. Like he had all this energy pulsing inside him and it needed to be released. But he no longer had the dark circles under his eyes and his pants weren’t quite so baggy anymore. He was the picture of health. Poreless olive skin, bright eyes, and a body that was so tight and strong you could bounce thousands of quarters off him. I admired that discipline.
He inched closer; his warm breath tickled my neck, my ear.
It was the moment I was waiting for. I tipped my head toward him, with what I hoped was a dreamy expression. Guys eat that up, apparently.
I didn’t have to do this with Travis. He knew I was prickly and couldn’t flirt to save my life. He also knew how to press my buttons and how to get me to sleep with him.
At least I was being myself while it happened.
With Johnny, every step had to be strategic. Each move made me more like Brit and less like me.
I fluttered my lashes, and that did it. He finally made his move.
Johnny tilted his head, ran a finger along my cheek, and leaned in. I met him halfway. His lips brushed along mine, slow and soft. It was like nothing I ever experienced. None of the sloppiness I had with Josh or the hard and fast moves with Travis. It was gentle and all-encompassing.
My eyes closed on their own, and that only increased the sensation of his lips on mine. I went taut and loose all at the same time—wound tight on the inside, but growing slack on the outside. My brain and body battled it out while he leisurely explored my mouth.
He was practiced, taking my bottom lip into his mouth before changing angles
of the kiss. I lost my resolve to be in charge of this moment. Not that Johnny cared one way or another. He didn’t care about being in control; he just wanted to feel.
Johnny was reviving me, bit by bit, bringing me back to the land of the living. It wasn’t long before it started turning into more.
I shouldn’t have let it happen. Johnny was just a piece on a board, helping me get to the endgame. I knew better than to let him in. Unfortunately, it was too late, and that was going to make everything more difficult.
24
Johnny
Dad is passed out on the couch when I get home. The bottle is empty, but the lingering scent of booze still floats in the air. Cassie is in her room and comes out to join me in the living room when she hears the door close.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say, nonchalantly scanning my body for any signs of our crime. “Back from hanging out at Becca’s.”
“Come here,” she says, leading me to her room.
I follow and she closes the door behind us.
“I have something to tell you, Johnny,” she starts. “Something we should’ve told you a long time ago, but we thought it’d be okay.”
“Who is we?” I ask, hoping on everything that she doesn’t know what I’m up to.
“Me, Ava, Rita.”
“Rita?”
“Yes.” She closes her eyes. “And she could be in deep shit if this gets out. So you have to promise this stays between us.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious, Johnny. She could lose her job.”
“Fine, I’ll keep my mouth shut. What’s it about?”
“Becca,” she answers. “It’s a long story, but you need to know. Are you ready?”