Killer

Fuck it. I climb out of the car and scale the stone stairs leading to the front door. The doorbell is loud and pretentious, once more bringing me back to my own childhood home. I guess if you know one rich asshole you know them all.

The door opens, revealing a tiny woman wearing black slacks and a white blouse. Her eyes bulge and she closes the door some, blocking my view of the inside.

“Yes?” she asks, her voice tinged with the hint of an accent.

If Britt’s mother is anything like mine was, she doesn’t want her employees sounding foreign and likely forced the woman to modulate her speech. Can’t be caught mingling with riffraff, can we? Even if they are just the hired help.

And right now, this woman is looking at me like I’m the riffraff, which I am.

“I need to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Reeves. It’s urgent.”

The tiny woman closes the door a little more, ready to slam it in my face.

“They are occupied,” she says. Before she can shut the door completely, I throw out an arm, slapping my palm on the wood to keep it open.

“Please. It’s about their daughter.” I give what I hope is a desperate look, and not a frightening one. I know with the tats and the clothes and the frantic way I’m twitching that I look like I’m crazy, but I have to talk to them. “Please,” I say again when it appears the woman is about to dismiss me.

“One minute.” She steps back and closes the door, leaving me on the front step to freak out. I pull at my hair and pace back and forth for what feels like hours. The door opens again and instead of the tiny housekeeper, I’m facing a tall, well-groomed man of about fifty.

Britt’s father. He has her eyes, blue and shimmering. The sight nearly knocks the wind out of me.

“Who are you?” he asks, his voice even but in that no-bullshit tone I recognize from dealing with adults like him my entire life. He’s rich, powerful, and used to getting whatever he wants.

“I’m Keller Bishop, I work with Britt. Your… daughter?” I ask, hoping I’m right.

“Yes, she’s my daughter. What is it I can do for you, Keller?” The man’s eyes drift up and down my body, taking in my rough appearance. He’s too polite to grimace, but I’m sure he wants to.

“Please. If I could just talk to you for a moment. Britt kind of… ummmm, freaked out last night and I can’t find her. I was hoping…”

“What did you do to my daughter?” he snarls, stepping out of the house to get into my space.

This guy has balls the size of coconuts. Not many people will challenge me so boldly. I’m glad Britt has him on her side.

“I didn’t do anything, sir. She saw something and I don’t understand… Please, this isn’t a conversation to have out here. I only need a minute.”

The man assesses me, calculating my sincerity, I’m sure. He gives me a sharp nod. “Follow me.”

The man leads me into a grand foyer, taking an immediate right into a huge office. It’s exactly like the ones I’ve seen in all of my high school friends’ houses, including my own. Dark wood, dark walls, shelves of old books that are only for show. A bunch of pretentious art hangs on the walls and an enormous desk rich men like him use to measure their dicks. Like the bigger the desk the more important you are.

“Sit,” he says, pointing at a leather chair. He takes the seat behind the desk, giving me the typical rich-CEO stare. Too bad years around my dad made me immune to it. “Tell me about Britton. All of it.”

“This is uncomfortable for me to say, sir,” I admit. Just the thought of bringing up the shooting has my stomach churning. Britt’s father narrows his eyes, indicating I should get the fuck on with it. Fine. “Did Britt go to North Atlanta Prep?”

The man’s mouth falls open and his all-business exterior vanishes. He slumps back in his chair and suddenly looks years older.

“What are you really asking?” he asks, his voice wary.

“I… my sister…” Breathing through my nostrils, I force out the rest of the words. “My sister died in the shooting, sir. Britt saw my invitation to the anniversary. I mean, there was a ten-year anniversary Saturday, and—”

“I know. My wife and I went.” The man drags his hands down his face. When he makes eye contact with me, this time he looks less CEO and more human. Like a man worried about his daughter. “Yes, Britton was there. She was the only survivor.”

Even though I suspected as much, hearing it confirmed is like someone reaching into my chest and pulverizing my heart.

Gasping, I bend over, putting my head between my legs. Long-suppressed tears overflow, dripping all over the fancy Persian rug. “Fuck,” I whisper. Pain like I’ve never felt lances every inch of my body, like a hundred thousand stab wounds opening at once.

Britt was there. With Kinsey.

“She doesn’t remember it,” the man says. I wipe my face the best I can and sit up, still overcome with the agony of the truth. “Britton suffered a gunshot wound to her head.” Her father closes his eyes and swallows. “She lost all hearing in her left ear, and suffered cognitive trauma—forgetting how to do the simple things. She was quite the little fighter though, and figured most of it out pretty quick, eating, tying her shoes, stuff like that… but it took months of therapy for her to walk again.”