Kelly had been promoted to three names now. Charlie supposed some producer in New York had decided that it sounded more menacing.
The scroll stopped. The anchor disappeared. Both were replaced by an illustration of a locker-lined hallway. The drawing was three-dimensional, but had an odd flatness, Charlie supposed to make it very clear that this was not real. A lawyer had apparently not been satisfied by the crudeness. The word “RE-ENACTMENT” flashed red in the upper-right corner of the screen.
The drawing became animated. A figure entered the hallway, moving stiffly, drawn in a blocky style. The figure’s long hair and dark clothing all pointed to Kelly Wilson.
Charlie unmuted the sound.
“… approximately six fifty-five, the alleged shooter, Kelly Rene Wilson, walked into the hallway.” The animated Kelly stopped in the middle of the screen. There was a gun in her hand, more like a nine-millimeter than a revolver. “Wilson was said to be standing in this location when Judith Pinkman opened the door to her classroom.”
Charlie moved to the edge of the couch.
A squared-off Mrs. Pinkman opened her door. For some reason, the animator had made her white-ish blonde hair silvery gray, styled it in a bun instead of down around her shoulders.
“Wilson saw Pinkman and fired two shots,” the anchor continued. The gun in Kelly’s hands showed two puffs of smoke. The bullets were indicated by straight lines, more like arrows. “Both shots missed, but principal Douglas Pinkman, Judith Pinkman’s husband of twenty-five years, ran from his office when he heard the gunfire.”
The virtual Mr. Pinkman floated out of his office, his legs not moving at the same pace as his forward movement.
“Wilson saw her former principal and fired two more shots.” The gun puffed again. The arrow-bullets traced to Mr. Pinkman’s chest. “Douglas Pinkman was instantly killed.”
Charlie watched the virtual Mr. Pinkman fall flat to his side, his hand to his chest. Two squid-like red blotches appeared in the middle of his blue, short-sleeved shirt.
Which was wrong, too, because Mr. Pinkman’s shirt had been long-sleeved and white. And he hadn’t worn his hair in a buzz cut.
It was as if the animator had decided that a middle-school principal looked like a 1970s G-man and an English teacher was an old biddy with a bun on her head.
“Next,” the anchor narrated, “Lucy Alexander entered the hallway.”
Charlie squeezed her eyes shut.
The anchor said, “Lucy had forgotten to get lunch money from her mother, a biology teacher who was at a department meeting across the street when the shootings occurred.” There was a moment of silence, and Charlie saw an image in her head of Lucy Alexander—not the squared-off drawing that the animators would have gotten wrong, but the actual little girl—swinging her arms, smiling as she rounded the corner. “Two more shots were fired at the eight-year-old girl. The first one went into her upper torso. The second bullet went through the office window behind her.”
There were three loud knocks.
Charlie opened her eyes. She muted the TV.
Another two knocks.
Panic shot through her heart. She always felt a flicker of fear every time an unknown person knocked at her door.
Charlie stood from the couch. She thought about the gun in her bedside table as she looked out the front window.
She smiled as she went to open the door.
All day, Charlie had been so busy wondering how things could get worse that she had never thought how things could get better.
“Hey.” Ben stood on the porch, hands in his pockets. “Sorry I’m bothering you so late. I need to get a file out of the closet.”
“Oh,” was all that she could say, because the rush of wanting him was too overwhelming to say more. Not that he’d made an effort. Ben had changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt she didn’t recognize, which made her wonder if Kaylee Collins, the twenty-six-year-old at his office, had bought him the shirt. What else had the girl changed? Charlie wanted to smell his hair to see if he was using their shampoo. To check his underwear to see if it was the same brand.
Ben asked, “May I come in?”
“It’s still your house.” Charlie realized she would have to actually move so he could come in. She stepped back, holding open the door.
Ben stopped in front of the television. The animation had come to an end. The anchor was back on screen. Ben said, “Someone’s leaking details, but they don’t have the right details.”
“I know,” Charlie said. They weren’t just wrong about what had happened when, they were wrong about how the people looked, where they stood, how they moved. Whoever was leaking information to the media was likely not on the inside, but they were close enough to get a payday for whatever specious information they could provide.
“So.” Ben scratched his arm. He looked down at the floor. He looked back up at Charlie. “Terri called me.”
She nodded, because of course his sister had called him. What was the point of saying something awful to Charlie if Ben didn’t know about it?
Ben said, “I’m sorry she brought it up.”
She lifted up one shoulder. “Doesn’t matter.”
Nine months ago, he would’ve said it mattered, but now, he simply shrugged back. “So, I’ll go upstairs, if that’s okay?”
Charlie gestured toward the stairs like a ma?tre d’.
She listened to his light footsteps as he sprinted up the stairs, wondering how she had forgotten what that sounded like. His hand squeaked on the banister as he rounded the landing. The polish was worn from the wood where he did this every time.
How was that detail not in her wallowing book?
Charlie stood where he had left her. She stared blankly at the flat-screen TV. It was massive, bigger than anything in the Holler. Ben had worked all day to get the components tied in. Around midnight, he’d asked, “Wanna watch the news?”
When Charlie had agreed, he’d pressed some keys on his computer and suddenly, Charlie was watching a video of a bunch of gnus.
Upstairs, she heard a door open. Charlie crossed her arms low over her stomach. What was the proper thing for a wife to do when her estranged husband, who hadn’t been inside their house in nine months, was inside the house?
She found Ben in the guest room, which was more of a catch-all for extra books, some filing cabinets and the custom shelves that used to hold Ben’s Star Trek collectibles.
It was when Charlie had realized the Star Trek stuff was gone that she had known Ben was serious.
“Hey,” she said.
He was inside the walk-in closet, rummaging through file boxes.
“Need help?” she asked.
“No.”
Charlie bumped her leg against the bed. Should she leave? She should leave.
“My plea bargain from today,” Ben said, so she guessed he was looking for old notes relating to the case. “Guy lied about his accomplice.”
“I’m sorry.” Charlie sat on the bed. “You should take Barkzilla’s squeaky. I found it by the—”