by Tess Sharpe
His hand squeezes back now: once, I wanted to run; twice, I screamed and she didn’t listen; three times, the cash was on the table in the morning.
I rub my hand over his heart, wishing I could reach inside and fix it. I bury my face into the crook of his neck, and his hand squeezes mine, telling me all the things his mouth can’t say.
I hold him and I keep the anger inside.
I press my lips to his forehead and I whisper it wasn’t his fault.
I walk him home and I don’t let the fury show.
I don’t go into my house. It’s late, but I get in my truck, praying that Uncle Jake’s sleeping deep.
When I get back to the mini-mart, Dan’s still there. It’s nearly three in the morning; he must have the graveyard shift. I tick this off on a mental list I’m already developing in my head of the things I know. His name. His schedule. The fact that he’s a fucking monster who buys little boys.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. I can’t stop my eyes from going to the glove box.
It would be so easy. One shot. Right between the eyes. I wouldn’t even have to get that close. He wouldn’t be able to react.
I’m fast. And I don’t miss.
Stop and think, Harley-girl.
There were cameras. I’d be seen. Even Daddy would have a hard time convincing the sheriff to look away from that sort of proof.
It’s not just that holding me back. It’s not just Daddy’s voice in my head.
It’s Mo’s.
Daddy’s raised me up a McKenna. But Mo and the Rubies are the women who’ve taught me what it is to survive. What it is to be a survivor.
Will survived this man. And if I just kill him, no one the wiser, if I take the choice of what happens to him from Will…
What does that make me?
Mo says there always has to be a choice. Choice is where the power is, that’s why they try to take them from you. Getting your choices back is where healing comes from.
So instead of blowing Dan’s head off right then and there, I sit in the truck and I watch. I wait.
And I try to figure out how to ask Will what choice he wants to make.
Will and I don’t talk about it. I wait for him to say something, half-afraid he’s waiting for me to do the same, but the next day, he shows up after school like normal, and we take Busy for a walk in the forest. It’s raining, so lightly that the water gets caught in the canopy of the trees, in the leaves and needles and moss. The droplets never make it to the ground.
Spring’s coming, glimpses of green shoot through the wet, soggy brown of late winter, as the snow melt rushes down the mountain and into the creeks.
I like this time of year, and I know it’s Will’s favorite. So we walk, on pathways through the forest that only we know, our breath and Busy’s paws through the mud the only sounds for miles.
I act normal and so does he. But it’s not like it didn’t happen or I don’t know.
There’s this understanding suddenly, a warm branch of knowing that’s twisted with all the others I’ve gathered through the years.
We keep walking, and somewhere along the way, he takes my hand and he doesn’t let go.
A week later, I still haven’t found the nerve to ask Will. But I’ve got Dan’s schedule down pretty good. He pulls the graveyard shift on the weekends, but the weekdays he’s on the five-to-one-a.m. shift. He lives in a run-down house on Pine Street, near the jail and the Rusty Nail, one of the seediest of Salt Creek’s six bars, which he visits for an hour or two after work most days.
He’s a creature of habit, Dan is. He goes to work, then he either goes to the bar or he goes home. At first, I thought he was single. But then, ten days into my new stalking habit, I see her. And all those plans to talk to Will, to let him choose, go right out the window.
Because the first time I see his girlfriend, she’s holding a toddler on her hip and her hand’s pressed against the swell of her stomach. She looks about six months pregnant.
All those tentative plans of maybe turn to definitely in a second. My mind’s made up, then and there. Even Mo couldn’t fault me. I pray for Will’s understanding if he ever finds out.
But kids in Dan’s house means he has to die. That little girl is in danger, if he isn’t already messing with her. And that baby will be, too.
So I continue to watch, letting my plan begin to fully form in my head as I do.
The toddler spends a lot of time at the girlfriend’s mom’s house. I tail them there a few times, because there’s no way in hell I’m doing this in front of a kid. The kid spends Wednesday nights at Grandma’s because Dan and the girlfriend’s shifts overlap. She’s gone until six a.m. He gets home at two or three, depending on if he stops at the Rusty Nail or not.
It’s long enough.
So the next Wednesday, I park in the lot across the street from the mini-mart at five o’clock in the evening and I settle in for a long wait.
The sun sets at about six, fast like it does in the forest, and I’m grateful when it does. It starts raining around nine, and by midnight the parking lot’s swamped with water. The rain falls in sheets against my windshield, a continuous patter of sound that’d be soothing if I weren’t so on edge. When someone taps on my passenger window, I jump—and when I see who it is, my stomach drops.
Shit. I am in so much trouble.
I unlock the door, and Daddy climbs inside.
“I thought you were coming home tomorrow,” I say.
“I decided I missed my daughter,” he answers, slamming the door shut and shaking the rain off his coat. “Imagine my surprise when I get home and she’s not in her bed where she’s supposed to be. And her goddamn guard dog isn’t with her.”
“How did you find me?” I ask, partly to delay. Do I tell him? Do I lie? Which is better?
Which gets me what I want?
Am I even ready for what I want?
He shoots me a disgusted look, settling in the seat. “You think I don’t have a tracker on your goddamn phone? I raised you smarter than that.”
I glance out the window. It’s nearly one. Dan’s shift is over soon. He’ll be heading home, and I need to follow.
“Start talking,” Daddy demands. “You left Busy at home. You know the rules. You don’t go anywhere without her.”
“The thunder might’ve spooked her,” I say. “I couldn’t have her barking.”
“And why not?” Daddy looks out my window, staring across the street, frowning. “You staking out the place? Planning a little robbery?” His voice is light, almost teasing, but his eyes are serious. He’s pissed.
I don’t disobey him. Or at least I don’t get caught doing it.
I bite my lip, chewing on the chapped skin, trying to decide.
It’s not my secret to tell. I know that. I’m better than that.
“Harley Jean,” he says warningly.
Daddy understands me. I’m half his in nature and all his in nurture. Daddy will recognize this feeling inside me, the urge to lash out like a rattlesnake and strike until my prey’s a bloody mess. I know he will, because he did the same thing to Ben Springfield.
That’s what I want for Dan. But I won’t get it unless I tell Daddy.
I need him. Because I’m not sure I can do it myself. But I know Daddy can.
“I’m hunting,” I say.
“You’re…” he trails off, his eyes going back to where mine are focused: on the mini-mart. “Who?” he demands. “The guy behind the counter?”
I nod. “He’s a bad person.” It’s such weak words for what he is. Monster doesn’t even cover it. I don’t know if there’s even a word that can hold that much evil.
“Did he hurt you?” Daddy’s voice gets terribly low and thick, and instead of scaring me like it usually does, it spurs me on.
“No,” I say. “I’m way too old. He likes little kids.”
“He—” Daddy’s head snaps back to the store’s window, his eyes narrowing. I can feel the air in the truck change. It makes goose
bumps pepper across my skin. There’s one thing even the worst kind of men can agree on: Kid fuckers should die.
“How do you know this?” he asks.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I just do.”
I am caught up in my hate, and it swirls around me like dust clouds kicked up by truck tires. There’s a vicious, hot churning in my stomach that I recognize, that I remember from the day I got Busy. But this is even more, a boiling sickness I can’t rid myself of. All I can hear is Will’s confession in my head. The way his voice broke.
I’ve been taught to make men pay when they cross me and mine.
“What are you going to do?” Daddy asks, and now he’s looking at me instead of the store. He’s looking at me like I’m a butterfly trapped in a water glass. Something fascinating, but too delicate to touch.
“His girlfriend has night shift on Wednesdays. He’ll be alone.”
“You’ve been tailing him.”
“For a week,” I say. “I’m not jumping into anything. You taught me better.”
“I did,” Daddy says. “And what are you gonna do when you’ve got him alone?”
I don’t say anything. Admitting it makes it real.
“You’re reacting, Harley,” Daddy says gently. “Reacting, not thinking. What have I told you about that?”
Think first. React smart.
I glance out the window. A woman in the same red-and-black T-shirt Dan’s wearing has taken his place at the counter. He’s heading across the parking lot, toward his beat-up Ford, a six-pack of PBR in his hand.
It’s time.
I start my truck.
“I’ve thought on it enough,” I tell him as Dan pulls out of the parking lot, heading toward home.
I press on the gas, and we follow.
Daddy’s silent the whole way to Dan’s house. The light’s on in the living room already, and I park a few houses down.
“So what’s the plan?” Daddy asks.
He thinks this is another lesson. Maybe it is, to him.
But it isn’t to me.
“Go ’round the back. Entry through the far door. Tread lightly. Double shot to the head. Use a pillow to muffle the noise. In and out in five minutes, tops.” I rattle it off.
Daddy raises an eyebrow, radiating disapproval. “Sloppy,” he says. “You’ll end up with a murder investigation on your hands.”
“The sheriff’s an idiot.”
“No body, no investigation,” he says.
“No body means a dump,” I argue.
“You scared of a little cleanup work?” He shoots back with a smile.
I glare at him because he seems to think that this is fun. That it’s a time for teasing.
“I’m not scared of anything,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt and reaching for the door.
Daddy’s arm presses like a steel band against my chest, pushing me back into the seat with a bruising force.
“You do not go into that house without a plan,” he says. “And you do not go into that house without me. Do you understand?”
I grit my teeth. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re gonna take your .38,” Daddy directs. “We’ll go through the back. You stay behind me until I give you the okay. You keep your gun on him.”
“Yes, sir.”
He pulls his arm away from me, flips open the glove compartment, and puts the gun in my hand. “Let’s go.”
This late, everyone who lives on Pine Street is asleep or still out at the bars or work. The only house with lights on is Dan’s.
We cross the street and go down the driveway, slipping through the unlocked gate. The backyard’s overgrown. I can feel weeds brushing up against my ankles as we make our way to the back door. Daddy tries the knob—it’s unlocked, too.
He jerks his head, and I follow him inside.
The lights in the kitchen are off, and Daddy’s beard shines silver in the moonlight coming through the window as he takes in the situation. The cabinets look like they’re purple or maybe blue in the darkness, and there are dirty dishes in the sink, takeout containers on the counter. He points down the hallway, the one that leads to the living room. “Wait ten seconds. Then follow me.”
I nod, adjusting my grip on my gun. My hands don’t sweat or shake, but there’s fear under my skin, lying still, ready to pounce. I breathe steady, counting in my head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Six. Seven. Eight.
“Hi, there,” I hear Daddy’s voice boom out.
“What the fuck!?”
I pad silently into the room behind him. Dan’s on the couch, facing away from the hall. Daddy’s seated himself across from him, in a beat-up recliner that has a big rip in one arm. His gun’s on his knee, not pointed at Dan, but a clear threat.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” I say, pressing the barrel of my gun against the back of his head.
Dan goes still, a whimper escaping his lips, his shaking hands going up.
Daddy smiles, all teeth and all business. “Now that I’ve got your full attention,” he says. “You know who I am?”
I pull the gun a little away from Dan’s skull so he can shake his head. He glances up at me as he does it, and his thin eyebrows scrunch together.
“You’re the girl who was at the store with…” he trails off, his eyes widening as he stares back at Daddy. “Oh, God.”
“You do know,” Daddy says. “That’s good. That makes this so much easier.”
I move around the couch, so the .38’s in Dan’s face. So it’s even more real.
He licks his lips, sweat pouring off him. “Look,” he says. “I promise, whatever Will said happened, it isn’t true.”
My stomach quakes. Shit. I hadn’t thought this through.
It wasn’t mine to tell. It wasn’t Daddy’s to know.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Daddy’s head whips to me. “Will?” he says, and there’s a horrible question there.
I look away, and it’s the only answer he’s gonna get, but it’s the only answer he needs.
With one movement, Dan’s lifted off the couch and hefted up against the wall, pinned by the throat. Daddy’s hands wrap tight around his neck. He sputters, legs kicking out uselessly, his fingers scrabbling against Daddy’s.
“You touched him?” Daddy hisses, right in Dan’s face. “You put your filthy hands on my boy?”
Dan’s eyes bulge, partly in terror and partly because Daddy’s doing a real good job at cutting off his air supply.
“Harley. Explain.” He grits out and there he is: the Daddy from the barn. The Daddy who punched holes in Ben Springfield like it was nothing and killed him even though he’d given him everything he wanted. The Daddy I need for this.
He’s a weapon. My weapon. And I just need to pull his trigger.
He loves Will. I don’t think he ever meant to. I think he brought Miss Lissa home to take care of the house and me, and he just saw Will as a bonus. A built-in playmate for me. Another tool to keep me content and trapped on the property, away from Carl Springfield’s reach.
But Will has a way of getting to you. I loved him from the start. From the flip of a coin and a promise to have my back. It might’ve taken Daddy longer, but that didn’t make it less real.
I know what he’s feeling because it’s exactly what I’m feeling.
When it comes to loving, we are the same.
“What did you do to him?” Daddy demands, and my heart breaks when his voice does. Daddy’s fingers are so tight around Dan’s neck that his face is bright red and his eyes look like they’re about to pop out.
Daddy’s on the verge of killing him. It would take just one word from me to stop him.
And it will take just one sentence to push him.
“His girlfriend’s pregnant.”
Daddy’s shoulders tense. And right then his mind’s made up, just like mine was the second I saw her and her daughter. Daddy’s hands shift, lightning quick, and a horrible, thudding crack fills my ears.
&
nbsp; Dan slides slowly to the ground, his head flopping to the side, his eyes bloodshot and blank.
I look down at my own hands and I think about how I’ll never be able to do that. How I’ll never have the strength in my fingers to crush men’s windpipes and spines. It’s scary that there’s even a small part of me that wants that. But you think strange truths when someone dies in front of you. They spring into your head, and they’re hard to ignore.
Daddy steps away from Dan’s body and toward me. I can’t meet his eyes until he reaches under my chin and lifts my face up. “Harley,” he says quietly.
“I’m okay.” My voice sounds strange in my ears. Breathless. Almost excited.
I should be upset. I was upset last time.
I was eight last time. I’m grown now.
Daddy’s eyes search my face like it’s got answers. But it doesn’t, and I don’t. I just need to move. To do something. To avoid feeling…or not feeling. There’s a strange blankness falling over me. When I look at the body, I don’t feel anything.
I should feel something.
“Will?” Daddy asks again.
I bite my lip, crossing my arms. “You can’t tell him,” I say. “He can’t know that you know. That we did this.”
Daddy’s lips press together tight, and he rubs a hand over his face. “Jesus,” he sighs. “That fucking woman.” I know he’s talking about Desi. “I can’t believe she let this happen. Goddamn junkie.”
I don’t tell him the whole truth, because if I do, Daddy will find some way to bring Desi back to life just to kill her himself.
“What do we do now?”
“You go home,” he says. “I’ll take care of this.”
I open my mouth, because it’s instinct to protest. It’s instinct to want to learn the lesson.
It’s instinct to finish what I started.
“Go home, Harley,” he says, and it’s a clear order. One I’m not going to defy. Not when I’ve already broken so many rules. He’ll probably call Cooper. That’s what you do when you want to get rid of a body. You call Cooper.
I take one step away, then another, and I don’t pause when I hear him say, “You did good, Harley-girl,” as I open the door.
I go home.