“And eventually get caught and go to jail,” I say to the water-stain on the ceiling, the one I haven’t gotten around to painting over since the roof leaked in November. “And have to live with knowing I’m an awful person, and a horrible example to the kids.”
But the words don’t sound sincere, even to my own ears.
The man we robbed in April was a monster, a miserable excuse for a human being who beat his wife nearly to death, on multiple occasions. He deserved what he got, and Gabe promised me there were others like him, other awful, evil people he’d learned about while trolling through his defense attorney father’s files.
I could help make sure creeps who have gotten off scot-free for their crimes are punished. I would be like an instrument of karma, avenging the innocent while lightening my own load in the process.
And if I saved up enough money, I could take time off from work to study and get my GED. It wouldn’t take long. Then I’d be able to take classes at the community college, and get qualified for a job that pays better than minimum wage. I’d have more time to spend with the kids on their homework, time to work with Emmie on the speech therapy stuff her therapist said we need to hit harder at home, maybe even time to go out dancing more than once or twice a year.
Dancing...with Gabe.
My lids slide closed and I shiver despite the heat that’s making my tee shirt stick to my skin and beads of sweat pool between my breasts.
Visions of that night—my twentieth birthday, the night everything changed—play out in the darkness behind my eyes: Gabe’s big hands pulling me into his arms, his fingers digging into my hips, his ice-blue eyes holding me captive in that moment before we kissed, promising wicked, wonderful things as his hand slipped between my legs and he made me shatter into a million beautiful pieces.
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