October 20
Twenty-Four Years Ago
12:15 A.M.
DADDY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
Mish stood in the doorway, her face frozen in horror. That was not Brooks in Leo’s bedroom. It was never Brooks, and it wasn’t Brooks now. She stared at the bed, the rumpled sheets, and she knew. She knew exactly where her father spent his nights.
Now her father was holding a gun and Leo was on the floor, in a pool of blood. Leo’s eyes were glazed and she wasn’t moving. Leo was dead. Oh my god, Leo was dead. Leo was dead. Leo was dead and it was all her fault. Mish knew it was. She knew.
She’d banged open the door, and she’d seen. She’d seen Leo with the gun, Leo with the upper hand, but the two of them had turned to her, her father and Leo, turning to the door to see what was happening, and in that moment, her dad had grabbed the gun from her friend and shot her dead.
“DON’T MOVE!” her father yelled.
Mish froze.
Her father held a gun. Her father had killed her best friend. He father had been . . . it was unthinkable. Her father had been having sex with Leo. Her father. Her father. Her father told her not to move. Her father was looking at her, wondering what she would do.
Mish knew what she had to do. She took a picture. She was still holding her camera; she’d run out of her room so angry she forgot she still had it slung over her shoulder. The flash startled both of them.
“WHAT THE HELL!” her father yelled.
She had to get out of there.
She ran.
“COME BACK HERE!” he screamed. He jumped from the bed, still holding the gun, and lunged for her, his fingers skimming her long blond hair as he fell.
He skittered in the blood, then tripped on the broken tile, slipped on it, just as Leo had that morning. Except instead of going ass-down, he fell at the wrong angle.
Slipped on the tile, and he went down hard, right on his head.
Mish heard the crack.
Just like the punch Leo’s dad had given that guy. One punch. Fell at the wrong angle. Hit the ground hard and died.
Her dad fell and hit his head.
The crack echoed throughout the tiny house.
Mish didn’t scream. She just watched.
Her father fell at an unnatural angle; he had hit his head and now he wasn’t moving. He had killed Leo and now he was dead as well.
When the front door opened, she almost screamed.
But it was only Arnold.
He looked at her and he looked at her dad sprawled on the floor, and through the doorway to Leo’s room, to Leo, dead on the floor.
He didn’t say a word. He just nodded. He was cool, like he dealt with this kind of thing all the time.
“Is he . . . is he . . . ?” she asked as Arnold leaned over her father’s body.
Arnold shook his head. “He’s still breathing.”
Shit.
“We could call an ambulance,” he said.
Mish nodded. They had to call an ambulance, didn’t they? That’s what people did when they saw all this blood, all this violence. But if they were going to call an ambulance, they would have done it already.
Arnold looked at Mish. Mish looked away. They stayed like that for a long time, the only sound the ticking clock on the wall.
They let him bleed out.
Finally, he stopped breathing.
“He was hurting her,” she told Arnold. “He hurt her.”
Arnold nodded. “Yeah, I kind of figured that. She kind of hinted something weird was going on. She didn’t want to be home alone. Not tonight.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Yeah. Except I was too late.” Arnold looked down at the dead man. “He’s gone now. He was still your dad. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” said Mish, and she kicked the dead man’s shin, hard. He was definitely dead. He was gray now, and getting cold. Now they could call an ambulance. “He was an asshole.”