“I didn’t do anything with Mason except make him extraordinary.” Her voice fills with pride. “Mason was never going to be anything without me because he was just so ordinary, you know? Mothers know their kids, and I pretty much knew from the time he was a year old that he was going to be a bit of a dud. No personality. Boring. Always whining. I mean, I don’t know what’s worse, having no personality or being annoying?” There’s not an ounce of remorse in her voice. Only arrogance. “We could’ve changed the way the world sees disabilities if things would’ve just gone the way they were supposed to.”
Her confession stuns me into silence. Nothing she does should surprise me, but it’s still shocking to hear her unapologetically admit such cruelty. We need to change how society views individuals with disabilities, but what kind of a sick person creates one in their child so they can make that happen? In what twisted world does that become okay? What happened to her to make her this way, or was she just born bad?
She sits up slowly, never taking her eyes off me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, waving the gun at her and motioning to the spot she was just in. “Get down.”
She shrugs and smirks. Her hair damp on her forehead. Blood crusted on her cheek. “I don’t really feel like laying back down,” she says as she puts one leg up like she’s going to stand. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s coming out this way, does it?” She puts her hand up to her ear and makes a dramatic production of pretending to listen. “Nope. No sirens.”
“Sit back down!” I yell, pointing to the ground with one hand and pointing the gun at her with the other, but she’s unfazed. There’s not an ounce of fear on her face. Hers is a look of pure defiance as she pushes herself up to standing position and gives me a huge smile.
“You’re not going to shoot me, and you know that as well as I do, honey.” She cocks her hip. “And here’s the thing we both know too.” She pauses like she’s giving me a chance to jump in, but I don’t know what to do, so I just stand there pointing the gun at her. “The police aren’t coming. There’s no reception down here. They keep it that way to keep the teenagers away.”
Anxiety fills me as I remember the annual meeting where the city council votes yes every year to keep it a dead zone. My heart sinks, and I try to hide the realization, but it’s too late. She’s read the recollection. She takes a teensy step to the side, followed by another.
“I’m just going to go, sweetie, so we can both get on with our lives, okay? Put this whole thing behind us, you know? You’ll never see me again, I promise.” Her eyes are brazen and bold underneath her long lashes. She puts her hands up as she slowly steps backward. “Look, you did your best. Nobody’s going to fault you for that.” She gives me a patronizing nod like she’s the one feeling sorry for me.
“You’re not going anywhere.” But I sound like a kid. A babysitter who’s been left alone with their younger siblings trying to get them to do something, and they’re just laughing.
Which is exactly what she does. She tilts her head back and laughs. Then starts walking.
“Bye, Casey.” She waves her fingers at me, then bolts. I sprint after her, but she’s too fast, and I’m spent within seconds. I’ll never be able to keep up with her through the woods. My legs are mush. Muscles shredded.
“Stop!” I scream at the top of my lungs, but she pays me no attention in the same way the man ignored her when he tried to get away. “Stop!” I scream again, louder this time. “Or I’ll shoot.”
But rules don’t apply to her. They never have. I can’t let her get away. If she gets into the trees past the party pit, the police might never find her. My stomach clenches. Sweat dribbles down my back.
I raise the gun and aim at her, slowly traveling down to her right calf. My hands are clenched around the magazine. My fingers tight on the trigger. I don’t take my eyes off her as I pull it back. The gun doesn’t make a sound, and then a loud crack shatters the air. She lets out a yelp like an animal who’s been shot, and she plummets to the ground, shrieking in pain.
My fingers go loose on the trigger. My arms drop, but I’m not letting go of the gun. She’s wounded, but she’s not dead, and until she’s in handcuffs, I don’t trust her. I hurry over to the pile of leaves where I left my phone, keeping one eye on her and the other scanning for it. A puddle of blood forms around her as she lies bleeding in the tracks left by the truck.
“Help me! Ohmigod! Help me!” she cries, clutching her leg and rhythmically rocking.
I hear the distant sound of sirens just as I spot my phone. Either my call went through or someone heard gunshots and called the police. It doesn’t matter. They’re coming. I could cry with relief, but I force myself to be strong. Only a few more minutes. I’ll be home to Harper soon.
The sirens roar through the housing development, drowning out the sound of Genevieve’s wails. It’s really over. She’s not going anywhere. I stopped her reign of terror. I can’t believe it, but I did. Thank goodness, she’s not the only southern girl who knows how to shoot.
THIRTY-EIGHT
SAVANNAH HILL
The cheap motel door reverberates with thuds. Brett bangs again before I reach it; at least I hope it’s Brett and not some other creep staying here. There’s no mistaking his terrified voice as he pleads, “Savannah, open up, hurry up, come on.” Each word is punctuated by a frantic staccato beat.
I peek through the peephole just to be sure he’s alone. His eyes are manic. Hair wild. His usual composure totally gone. His face is ashen white like he has COVID again. His eyes dash back and forth, panning the hallway on each side.
I open the door, and he shoves me out of the way, scrambling inside and pulling me along with him. He’s panting and out of breath. He flings the duffel bag onto the floor and slams the door behind us. His hand trembles as he secures the string latch, followed by the dead bolt. He twists the lock in the doorknob for extra safety. That’s when I notice the blood. It’s all over his lower body like he peed himself in it. His jeans stick to his left leg.
“Oh my God, Brett! What happened?” I bend down to look at the wound, but he puts his hand over it like I’ll hurt it just by getting close.
“She shot me! Your crazy bitch of a mom shot me!” he shrieks.
“She shot you?”
“Yes! She shot me,” he cries like it’s not real for him either.