Then mom comes back on the line. “Henri’s getting restless?—“
“I’m not!” Henri’s muffed voice shouts as hammering starts in the background.
“What did you do to my kid?” I ask.
“I shoved her into the pantry and I’m leaning against the door so she can’t get out.”
I should be outraged. Any other mother would be, but honestly, I wonder why’ve I never thought of it before.
“Let me out, Gramma!” The pounding’s persistent.
“It’s Elle!” Mom replies.
“Gramma! Gramma! Gramma!” Henri taunts.
“Please don’t kill her,” I say to mom.
“I’m not prone to violence like you are.”
True that. “We’ll talk later.” I hang up the phone knowing that my life is about to become a living hell.
I’m not wrong.
Three days later, Henri, Brambles and I are on our way to a campsite near Pyramid Lake that’s so remote it’s a serial killer’s dream dump site. I tell myself Eight won’t kill me and Henri because it would set a bad example for his kid. Also, he seems smart enough to know that if we went missing, he’d be the first person the cops would look at.
Providing mom reports us missing.
Eight agreed to purchase everything we needed, so all I’ve brought are a couple of duffles with our personal shit and Brambles’ food and treats, plus his favorite toys: a well-chewed frisbee that was confiscated by Henri after a neighbor kid threw it in the yard, and a ratty old teddy that mom gave him when he was a pup. He’s never even looked at the toys I’ve bought him. I should sell him to Cruella de Vil. Unfortunately, she only deals in Dalmatians.
My car is chugging along like it’s been smoking two packs of cigarettes for the last thirty years and I’m not sure it’s going to make it. When I pull up to a red light, Henri reaches for the door handle.
I grab her hand. “Don’t make me ziptie your wrists and lock you in the trunk.”
She wrestles away from me and crosses her arms. “This is gonna to be the worst time ever.”
I agree. “Don’t exaggerate.”
“Really? What’s the worst time you ever had?”
I think of the time someone locked me inside a porta-potty when I was forced to hide to get away from a couple of gangbangers. Took two hours and 20 bucks to get out. Then there was the time I fell into a garbage bin trying to find an envelope with my mark’s address. For days, I stunk like baby shit left in the trunk of a car in mid-July. Neither time was as bad as when I twisted my ankle falling through the floor in a condemned building as I chased after a payday. I couldn’t call for help because the jackass stole my phone. Two homeless men were kind enough to carry me out and set me on a street corner, where I almost got arrested for soliciting.
I glance at Henri. “Let’s reserve judgment until after.”
“After! It’s four days we’re gonna be stuck out there.”
“I know!” I’m losing my patience with the little moaner. “What do you want me to do?”
“Kill them,” she says without hesitation. “Or frame them for murder.”
I shiver at how quickly she responded. “Your murder?”
“Oh, you’re so funny.”
“Sometimes I inadvertently am.”
The next half-hour passes in silence, then Henri tries again. “Why don’t we just go home? I promise I’ll ignore Oscar for the rest of my life.”
“Sure kid. Right up until he puts your braid in the ol’ inkwell.”
