“I…I don’t hate you,” I say, and I mean it. “I know you’re just unhappy.”
His eyes flicker in hopeful confusion. “Then you want to come with me?”
I remember the video. The expression on his face when he was hitting me. All the times he found a reason to punish me. Not to make me better, but because he enjoyed it.
“No. You hurt me. It’s not okay to hurt people. Even if you’re unhappy.”
His face turns to ice, and then it cracks. “I never touched you,” he growls. “In all these years, I never put my hands on you.” He leans in close, his eyes on fire. “Did I?”
I shake my head.
“I could have, but I didn’t. You don’t even think about that. About what I had to do.”
The porch light dies, plunging us into darkness, but it doesn’t really matter. I was never good at reading him anyway.
I feel one hand wrap around my throat, and there’s just a hint of pain. I should be afraid, but I feel empty. I remember my father’s hands. My mother’s hands. What hands are meant to do.
His fingers tighten, lifting me like a puppet until I’m on my feet. When he starts dragging me toward the open gate, the numbness flies away. My mouth goes wide. His hand slaps across my lips. As I kick and claw at his arm, I feel something wet against my neck, then the sharp sting of teeth.
Russell pulls an object from his waist, one I recognize from the same cabinet that holds the switch. “This is my father’s gun,” he says.
“I—I’m sorry about your father. I miss my father too.”
He starts to laugh, and turns his head just enough for the moon to shine against his face. It’s the clown mouth, a smile around a sneer. “You think I miss my father? I hated him.”
“I—I—”
Russell laughs again and holds the gun out in his palm in front of me like an offering. “He used to talk so much about what it meant to be a man, but I always thought there was something small about using one of these. A man should rely on his own power, not tiny pieces of metal you can’t even see coming.” He pulls the gun back in his tight grip. “But they’re quick, and sometimes you need things done quick. Isn’t that true?”
I try to nod.
“Adam is something that could be done quick.”
I try to speak, but Russell squeezes my face so hard with one hand that my teeth catch against the inside of my cheek and I taste blood.
“You know how quickly it can happen. One minute you have them. Then, in an instant…” He releases my face and snaps his long fingers. “…they’re gone.” I go cold and sweaty at the same time. “All of them. Gone.”
This time when he drags me, I go limp. I don’t walk, but I don’t fight, letting him pull me farther from the house to the gate, where he could take me anywhere.
Lately I’ve been wondering if anytime I get nervous or worried or whatever, I’ll think it’s a bad feeling. Because this could just be stress, or it could be an actual premonition when Julian’s not in his room or in the kitchen or anywhere else in the house.
I open the back door, and the porch light illuminates two figures: Julian—and Russell. His giant arm is wrapped around Julian’s neck. He’s pulling him toward the gate.
I break into a run, shouting, “Stop!”
They freeze, and there’s this expression on Russell’s face, a terrifying kind of hatred that’s never been directed at me before. Slowly he raises his arm, and the expression becomes one of immense satisfaction.
I’ve always thought if a gun was pointed at me, I’d know what to do. If you’ve seen a million superhero movies like I have, you think you’d throw out a smart-ass comment, then maybe spin-kick it from the bad guy’s hands.
Instead it’s just white and so much fear I can’t think, and I’m stammering and doing what stupid people do in movies—trying to reason with the crazy person holding the gun and you can’t do that. You can’t.
“It’s okay, Russell,” Julian’s saying. “I’ll go. I want to go with you.”
I hear the door open behind me. “Adam, are you—?” Emerald. She screams, then there’s a smattering of terrified voices.
My mother pleading.
Someone crying.
Someone running.
These are all the wrong things to do. They’re going to make him panic.
Russell’s arm—choking.
Julian’s face—crying.
The gun—closer, closer, till it’s resting cold against my forehead.
I can’t see anything now. I know to stop him I need to be able to see, but everything’s blurry because my eyes are full of tears. I squeeze them shut, feel the tears spill over.
A sudden sound and smell that reminds me of fireworks.
CHARLIE AND RUSSELL are rolling across the grass. Charlie’s taller, but Russell’s bigger and looks a hell of a lot stronger. Somehow, in the seconds my eyes were closed, Charlie must’ve tackled him. The gun must’ve fallen, must’ve gone off.
Where is it?
Julian’s on the ground, scrambling backward while they twist and grapple.