The Killer in Me

by Margot Harrison

“This Jaylynne sounds like a spitfire.” Dylan’s accent sneaks back as he downs the beer. “But I’m glad you’re the careful type. That’s safer, ’specially for a girl.”

  Wonder why that is?

  “Being careful’s kind of boring.”

  A new person is speaking through me. The same person who now grabs the beer from Dylan’s hand, raises it to her own mouth, and takes a swig.

  I hate the taste. But I like the warmth that blooms in my stomach as I take a second sip, Dylan watching me with a weird mix, I think, of curiosity and approval.

  “You’re not much of a drinker,” he says as I slam the bottle down like Marion winning the shot-drinking contest in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

  “How could you tell?” The choking and sputtering?

  Dylan grins, and his cheekbones sharpen.

  Then, just as quickly, it’s like a cloud has covered the sun. When he looks at me again, his eyes are veiled, brows lowered. “I don’t want you to Google our dad.”

  “What?” I never bothered to ask Becca my dead dad’s first name, and since I met Dylan, finding out has been the least of my concerns.

  He must assume I asked her, though—it makes sense to want to know how your dad died.

  “His name was Stephen Dean Shadwell,” Dylan says now, like he’s figured out I’m not as curious about my birth family as I should be. He takes a long swig and slumps back on his elbows. “It happened almost eighteen years ago, so I’m not sure what’s out there. But I don’t want you finding out on the Internet.”

  “Finding out what?” I lean across the table.

  Don’t get too close, the old fearful part of me whispers. But Dylan doesn’t scare me right now. His gangly limbs, his inability to sit still, how he stares too hard and then suddenly avoids eye contact—all these things are familiar to me. They are me.

  I haven’t seen his left eyelid twitch yet, but I know it does. I know how he’s going to respond to things—like right now. He’s acting like he doesn’t want to tell me about our dad, but he will.

  “He didn’t just commit suicide,” I say. The sheet, not really hooked to an apple tree but to something Dylan doesn’t like to remember. “I mean, he did, but—”

  Dylan nods, his eyes hooded now. “He killed himself in the joint.”

  That I suspected. “But”—and here’s where my courage fails me, an eroded cliff crumbling under my hiking boots—“why was he there?”

  Dylan closes his eyes. On the exhale he opens them and says, “Dad was convicted of killing his brother-in-law. His sister’s husband. Shot him execution-style in his home.”

  My throat hitches, closes.

  So maybe murder does run in our family.

  I stare at the tabletop as my brother’s voice goes on, “I should’ve waited for Ma to tell you. But I was worried you’d just run a search.”

  My dad is a killer. All I can do is nod.

  “He confessed to it, premeditation and all. Only thing was, he told the cops and the court he did it to protect his sister from the rat bastard who was leaving her black and blue every weekend. Our uncle.” Dylan clears his throat. “Our dad said our aunt tried to leave Uncle Rick three times, but he kept threatening to kill her. ‘Couldn’t reason with him. It was my last option.’”

  What did Warren say about criminals? They always think they’re right and the world is wrong.

  “And was it?” I ask, raising my eyes.

  “Was what?”

  “Was it the last option? Was your uncle really beating your aunt black and blue?” I can’t bring myself to say “our.”

  He releases the empty bottle, which nearly topples over. “Dad was the only person who said he’d seen these…beatings. My aunt’s friends, they noticed bruises, but she said it was a lie. Said she never once tried to leave Uncle Rick, she bruised easy, and my dad was unwell.”

  Unwell. Where does that leave me?

  “I’ve always wondered if they planned to whack that turd Rick together, Dad and Aunt Denise. Maybe she was supposed to back up his story, but at the last minute she wussed out.”

  “Maybe.” I don’t hide my skepticism. “But if your aunt killed her husband in self-defense, why would she lie about it?”

  “Maybe she was worried about a jury not being sympathetic.” Dylan sighs. “Maybe she changed her mind after she saw the body. Maybe she freaked. I wish I could ask her.”

  “Is she…?”

  “Dead, yeah. Took a bunch of pills two months after my dad killed himself. She left a note saying she couldn’t sleep.”

  This is my family.

  I feel like I’ve just watched five seasons of an intense cable drama, my jaw stiff from clenching. “It happened right around when I was born, didn’t it? That’s why Becca was having such a tough time.”

  “Rough time, yeah.” Dylan rotates the bottle, tracing a half circle.

  “You were six. Rough time for you, too.”

  “Bad Days,” he used to call it. Are the Bad Days the key to understanding Dylan? Genetic mental illness, maybe, and then his uncle being ripped away, followed in quick succession by his dad, his aunt, and finally his sister.

  TV reports on the murder, kids jeering at school, friends’ parents not wanting him to sleep over. His mom bursting into tears at the slightest provocation. Babysitters, therapists, counselors up in his business. People dogging him and whispering.

  It’s all so vivid in my head, so real. And why shouldn’t it be? Even if I can’t remember, those Bad Days were my earliest ones, and they must have imprinted themselves on me, too. Days of the curdled aftermath of violence, days of ostracism and shame.

  Warren kept asking me leading questions, digging for evidence of a long-buried trauma to explain my dreams. I thought he was a knee-jerk skeptic.

  Maybe he was right.

  “It wasn’t the greatest time in my life,” Dylan says, his eyes evading mine. “But after a while, you know, things settled down. Mom got a decent job. We lived out in the desert, and I collected tarantulas.” He chuckles in his dry way. “We were doing okay. The only thing was, Mom wouldn’t stop talking about you. Everybody told her it was for the best, getting you a new family when she couldn’t hold things together, but she sure regretted it.”

  I nod, trying not to judge. Giving me up was for the best in the end, but I still don’t see how Becca could do it.

  “She tried.” Dylan’s hand darts out and covers mine. “I’m trying, too, Nina. With Trixie, I mean. I’m trying to step up, ’cause her actual dad isn’t here like he should be.”

  I twitch away from him.

  “Sometimes I worry I don’t have the skills—not growing up with my own dad and all.” His eyes are wet. “I just want to be there for that little girl like Mom and Dad weren’t there for you. That means never doing anything that might land me where Dad landed.”

  Jail.

  “Of course not,” I say too quickly.

  His eyes meet mine, widening so they stretch the pale skin. He looks like an owl, too alert. Almost like he’s challenging me—or just like he really, badly, needs me to know he wouldn’t do anything wrong.

  “Doubt I’d survive in the joint much longer than Dad did,” he says. “Some people, we need our freedom.”

  I blink hard. Could he be hinting…?

  No. He does not know. He does not dream his way into me. If he did, he wouldn’t be treating me like his sister right now. I’d be dead, because I’m threatening his family and his freedom, the things he cares about most.

  But I can’t be sure of anything anymore, can I? And so I ask, testing the waters, “Have you ever been arrested? Or, you know…done anything?”

  Dylan doesn’t look startled or spooked, any more than he did when I used Jaylynne’s name. “Arrested, no. Done some stupid shit? Yeah. Trespassing, shoplifting, joyriding—teen bullshit. Never got caught.” He shakes his head. “Never tempting fate again. Straight and narrow.”

  He holds my gaze as he says it and raises his beer i
n a toast to lawfulness. I almost believe him.

  “When are you going to Arizona?” Dylan asks at the door. And, almost tentatively, “Could we hang out again? I’ve got a bunch of clients to see tomorrow, but the day after, I could drive you out to Sky City.”

  I told Becca I’d see her tomorrow, but I know now I’ll need to postpone my visit again. If I can’t get into the mine, I can at least sneak into that shed. “I’m staying a couple more days. If you need a sitter for Trixie, anything like that, I’d love to help out.”

  Dylan’s eyes light up. “Our friends are having a barbecue tomorrow, and our sitter has a conflict. We could hang out afterward, bring you some dessert—”

  He turns to pitch this plan to Eliana, who’s tiptoeing down the stairs. Moving to make room for her in the narrow hallway, I find myself jogged up against a console with a lopsided ceramic bowl full of keys.

  “What barbecue?” Eliana asks.

  “Tomás and Marianne. You forgot?”

  One key fob has a Toyota logo; that must be Dylan’s. Angling my body to hide the maneuver—not that it matters, since Dylan and Eliana are glaring at each other—I reach in and close my fist on it. Soundlessly I slip the key ring into the loose pocket of my blousy top.

  This could turn out to be a disastrous, boneheaded move. Or a useful one.

  Dylan’s saying something about seeing their friend Tomás before he goes to Europe. Eliana interrupts: “But Nina’s on vacation. We shouldn’t put her to work.”

  As I say, “I love kids,” I register the tight set of her mouth and understand. Eliana wants to trust me, because Dylan does, but she’s still reluctant to leave her child with a girl she just met.

  I don’t blame her.

  I parked around the block so Dylan wouldn’t get a look at my car. Now I slide the Legacy up to the curb in front of his neighbor’s house, giving myself a good view.

  He and Eliana aren’t asleep yet. The downstairs is dark, but blue TV radiance jitters in the master bedroom.

  Could he try to slip out into the desert tonight? It’s only eleven.

  Then again, I’ve stolen his keys. Compromised his mobility.

  The desert sun seems to have baked its way into my bones, making my eyelids feel as gritty as my nails, but I can’t doze off here. I find a few more of my stolen Arizona photos and text them to Warren, Mom, Kirby. We did Grand Canyon today. A-maz-ing. More soon.

  Warren’s busy with the shoot; his one message today said they’re working him like a sled dog or a St. Bernard or some other dog that actually works. Mom’s asleep. Kirby writes back: Awesome. Miss u.

  Houses go dark, porch lights clicking on all over the cul-de-sac. It takes about an hour, this conversion from a peaceful waking street to a peaceful sleeping one. Aside from the distant traffic, no sound but crickets.

  Dylan and Eliana’s porch light blinks on. About fifteen minutes later, the master bedroom goes black.

  This is it. Either he’ll slip out of the house and drive—assuming he has a spare key—or he’ll go to sleep like everybody else.

  I have no way of knowing when that will happen. But I’m ready. I scoop the heavy key ring out of my pocket and hold it in both hands so it catches the streetlight.

  If he’s inside my head when he goes to sleep, he won’t miss the challenge I’m giving him, the red cape I’m waving. The question is, how will he react? Charge out of the house and confront me?

  I’m not ready. All I can imagine is backing out, bolting for the interstate—and I don’t know if I can even do that when my head feels so sluggish, my skin parched by the sun. But if the worst is true, I need to know.

  I watch the dashboard clock. I wait. My tired eyelid twitches, but I force it open. If I can’t see the keys, neither can he.

  My eyes hurt from focusing, so I get out of the Legacy and sit on the hood, playing with the keys. A hot tightness builds in my chest—I’m being ignored.

  Fuck this. It’s not working. I should go back to the motel, pull the covers over my head again.

  Then I remember Dylan tearing up as he talked about Trixie—and the keys’ sharp edges dig into my palms. Pain makes me light-headed. Who does he think he is playing, Father of the Year? How dare he?

  He thinks I’m fooled. He thinks I’m scared. I’ll show him I’m not.

  I slide off the hood and stalk down the street into Dylan’s driveway. Alarm bells sound in my head, but the house remains dark and silent.

  Here’s the Sequoia, sleek and black and enormous, and I have the key.

  Didn’t Dylan say he used to trespass and joyride? “Teen bullshit” was his phrase.

  I press the button, open the door, and climb into the SUV, every tiny click and thud thundering in my ears. Each move into his space feels like a violation. Yet the cab smells familiar, like tobacco smoke and wood glue. Like home.

  Here I am, in your private space. Do you see me? Do you care?

  I wait, but nothing happens. So I turn the key.

  The roar of the engine knocks me out of myself. I’m floating toward the roof of the SUV, my sore limbs left behind, like him after a kill. If he knows…I’ll be the next one.

  Then I’m back in control, my head still light and humming, and the lit-up dashboard looks familiar, too, or maybe it doesn’t. Warren would say our brains can convince us anything is familiar, and he’d have five links to prove it.

  Screw his links. I remember how it feels to drive this thing—lofty. Powerful. Loud.

  The house door stays shut, but my whole body thrums with the need to go. I creep out of the driveway and down the street, half expecting to see him looming in my path with a rifle leveled at the windshield.

  Nothing. Once the house is out of sight, my limbs and eyelids feel heavy again. What’s the point of running if no one follows you? After a few blocks, I pull the Sequoia into the empty lot of what looks like a preschool and turn off the engine.

  The vibrating energy creeps back, making me drum my fingers on the wheel. Here I am. Come and get me.

  This car has transported corpses, been a scene of death. It should smell wrong, feel wrong. Haunted. But, though I keep checking the rearview mirrors, the Sequoia itself doesn’t scare me. Maybe the cigarette stink covers its sins.

  The half pack of Marlboro filters I pinched from the Sands Café in Texas is still in my bag. I take one out and light it with the Bic from the glove compartment. His.

  I’ve only smoked a couple times, with Kirby’s brother after the support group, walking home down lonely, frigid streets. Last winter was so cold that lighting up was more about having something to keep my hands moving than getting a nicotine fix. When I try to inhale now, I can’t stop coughing.

  If Dylan’s watching this, he’ll laugh his ass off—until he realizes I’m in his car.

  Check the mirrors. Just a parking lot, sodium lights on asphalt. I’m shaking hard now, not just from the coughing, and I can’t bring myself to open the windows more than a sliver.

  Maybe I should have jumped on the freeway and taken off. Where are you? Don’t you see this?

  He must not be impressed.

  I stretch out my bare arm, sickly orange under the streetlight. What if I burned myself, like the girl in support group who sometimes pushed up the sleeve of her fleece to show us raised circular scars?

  That would get Dylan’s attention. If he’s with me now, if we’re cursed to visit each other every night, then we need to stop lying. No more sibling bonding, no babysitting, no more of this “hanging out” BS.

  Terrifying as it is to provoke him, pretending is worse.

  I touch the cigarette to my arm, flinch as my nerves catch fire. Feel that?

  But the pain yanks me back to myself, and I flick the butt out the window. I’m not hurting myself for him.

  No movement in the mirrors. He’s not coming. He’s had plenty of time to chase me down the street. I jam down the window button, a chill tickling my shoulder blades, and start the Sequoia again.

  I
’ll leave it a block from his house, easy to find. Hold on to his keys, dare him to ask for them back.

  He can lie to me and himself. I still know.

  When I return the following afternoon, the Sequoia is neatly parked in the driveway. As a glammed-up Eliana bustles around the house giving me last-minute instructions, I wonder if I imagined last night. Maybe I’m really losing it.

  But no. “You do have your keys, right?” Eliana asks as Dylan holds the front door open for her.

  Dylan looks blank for an instant, then annoyed. “You don’t have to keep asking.”

  “Actually, I do, because this is your only set now, and you insist on driving.” Eliana twists her arm around Dylan’s waist, her expression half-teasing and half-annoyed, then turns to explain to me. “He must’ve dropped his keys in the driveway, because when we woke up, his car was gone. A neighbor kid probably took it for a joyride.”

  “I bet it was the Carson boy. That little no-good skater punk.” A crease forms between Dylan’s brows.

  “But you found the car.” Bland, innocent.

  “Oh, sure. The pissant left it right down the street like he was jerking my chain. Luckily, I got a spare key.” His eyes stay on me, narrowed.

  But I see no personal reproach in them, no anger. If this was a test, he’s passed it.

  Trixie is one of those kids who absolutely, positively won’t sleep while they can see blue sky outside, as if missing a single hour of daylight offends them. I remember my own childhood outrage at pre-sunset bedtimes. But I still tuck her into her pink-and-purple bed, arrange her stuffed animals in a protective encampment, and read her five storybooks.

  She’s almost drifted off when there’s a thwack and a triumphant yell from outside—some damn skater kid doing a trick. Trixie shoots upright and asks, “Are bears ever scared of other bears?”

  “What, honey?”

  “I mean, a grizzly bear and a black bear are both bears.” She illustrates this with two teddy bears that look identical. “But grizzly bears eat people, and black bears usually just eat berries. So if a black bear meets a grizzly bear, does he run away?”