Which is, I was a total victim and therefore can’t be blamed for anything.
(The part where I was good at hiding, jumped on a flatbed truck, took cross-country buses, hitched, changed my name repeatedly, got jobs, gained thirteen pounds, stole things, disarmed Jack, had a plan—not in the story. Nothing that makes me sound like Xena, Warrior Princess made it into the story.) My part of the action is screaming, “Knife, knife, knife!” like an out-of-control wind-up toy. Reaching for the gun because I was scared that Jack would hurt my daddy. That’s what my lawyer keeps calling Steve. My daddy. It makes me sound like a crazed, blameless little kid.
I’m nobody’s crazed, blameless kid.
As soon as I figured out Jack wasn’t lying to me anymore, in the mountains, in California, I knew what had to happen.
Here’s the thing:
When Jack said it was Yeager who wanted me dead, I knew he was right.
It wasn’t Steve sending Jack after me at all. This made me almost happy it was Yeager.
And I knew which Yeager.
The one with the reason to want me dead.
Alex.
Not Karl Yeager. Alex.
“The whole Yeager clan is rabid pit bulls,” Jack said.
“They won’t stop until they stop breathing,” he said. “As long as they’re breathing, they keep coming at you.”
Alex Yeager wouldn’t have quit coming after me until I was dead.
And after Alex disposed of me, he would have found Jack. On Jack’s secret eggplant plantation in Paraguay or wherever. And Alex’s guys would have killed Jack too for not doing the job. For not tossing me off a cliff.
But with Alex Yeager gone, there would be no reason to get rid of me or Jack.
Jack, in his effort to show me how illogical I am, demonstrated how syllogisms work.
Bob is a crow. All crows are black. Therefore Bob must be black.
Alexis Yeager was going to keep coming at me until he stopped breathing. Alex Yeager had to be stopped. Therefore?
Alex Yeager had to die.
And I had to take care of it.
I mean, Jack wasn’t going to—at least not on purpose. Try going, Hey, Jack, let’s go kill someone who’s really bad on purpose.
His big brother already tried telling him to do that to me, and look what happened. Look at me. Not dead.
I just needed Jack to think it was Steve he had to protect me from for as long as it took to get from that ugly California forest to Cotter’s Mill. I thought it was Steve who was after me for so long. Why wouldn’t Jack believe it for a couple of days?
And so I called up Alex. When Jack and I were halfway to Ohio, and I was supposed to be taking an extra-long shower in a motel bathroom. Several extra-long showers.
I said, “It’s me.”
“Nicky?”
“Zandy, why are you hounding me? Don’t you know I’d do anything for you—just like what you did for me? You’re amazing. I want to be with you. Which won’t work if I’m planning my funeral. Don’t you want me?”
“It isn’t me who’s after you,” he says.
Liar.
“It’s my dad,” he says.
Double liar. I heard you whine, “Don’t tell my dad,” so many times while you were digging the hole. Over and over.
“Oh God, Nicky, can I see you?” Alex says.
Bingo.
Come into my kitchen, said the spider to the guy who stabbed Connie Marino eleven times. When, where, and unarmed because if Steve is there, he’ll take your gun and your stupid SOG SEAL knife right off you. He keeps a pistol loaded in the drawer under the toaster in the kitchen if you need one.
Not.
Steve keeps his guns locked up, not rattling around with bread knives.
Guns versus knives? Guns take it.
Steve’s arm was collateral damage. I’m truly sorry. That was not supposed to happen.
Jack was supposed to shoot just Alex in defense of me.
Steve was right there. He saw me pitch a fit over a dull knife. He knows his arm getting shot was my fault.
But how could he blame me?
Alex Yeager was going to kill me. And if I turned him in, his dad was going to kill me. Anyone. Anywhere. Anytime. Just like Jack said.
But if Alex turned a knife on a five-foot-two-inch high school cheerleader in her own house, how could anybody call out me or Jack or Steve for stopping him?
If all else failed, I would have done it myself.
Terrified teen girl clutches gun, fires wildly, fatally wounds assailant. Followed by a lot of prayer that nobody who ever saw me shoot the bull’s-eye right out of a target would ask too many questions.
But Alex took the knife.
I screamed.
Jack shot.
Alex went down.
What happened afterward was improv. But all those first responders running around? It was kind of ideal. A great big free-for-all. Terrible tragedy. Look around. Arrest everybody in sight. Interrogate us right and left. Call it self-defense and file it. They already knew Alex Yeager was a very bad guy.
I wanted my life back.