I step to the side and he moves through the doorway as the young girl springs to her feet and runs after him. She grabs his shirt, but he shoves her off him.
Then he walks over to the man who tried to hit me and looks down at him before he laughs. It’s such a chilling sound in this hell of a world. And when he kneels down, it’s not to grieve for the man I killed, but to plunge his knife into the man’s chest. I watch him stab the lifeless body again and again while the girl curls up on the floor and cries into her knees.
I know I should leave them, but it feels wrong to leave them here. All of this feels wrong.
“Get out,” I snap.
The boy freezes and looks back at me, his expression unreadable.
“Get out of here. Find someplace else to go. Go to the hospital. Someone will help you, find you a home, do something.”
Still, he stares at me, and I don’t like the look he’s giving me. But he’s not moving. He’s not listening. So I grab the girl’s arm and begin dragging her toward the door. She screams and reaches for the boy who stands up and starts to trail after me; only then does she calm down and allow me to lead her from the bloodbath. I pull her outside and release her, but I find that she now has hold of me and doesn’t let go.
“There’s a hospital that way. Now go,” I say, trying to shoo them off.
They both stare at me as I pry the girl’s hand off my clothes and disappear into the distance.
“Why are you here?” I ask, planning for my voice to be sharp.
The girl looks up and smiles when she sees me. At least she’s not sobbing this time. Instead, she’s watching me closely, like she’s excited to see me.
I noticed her a few days after I’d killed the people she’d been with and had learned that the man who tried to hit me was her—and the boy’s—father. The bruises the boy wore were all presents left behind by his father.
When I’d asked Lucas about them, he’d punished me for fixating on something that was irrelevant to the case at hand. I’d been reprimanded and reminded why we remain focused, but when I went out to collect something from the same area three days later, I saw her sitting alone on the street.
Questions raced through my mind:
Did her brother leave her?
She’s seen my face, could she tell someone?
Why wouldn’t she have gone for help?
What would have happened if I’d sought out help and hadn’t ended up in Lucas’s hands?
It’s now been five more days of the girl sitting there, which is why I’ve walked up to her and asked her why she’s here, but I’m met with silence.
And a smile.
She rushes up to me, making me shy away from her. It’s like even though my mind is telling me that what she wants is a hug, I want nothing to do with her touch. I want nothing to do with anyone’s touch, honestly.
The girl seems uncertain what to do with me, but she’s smart enough not to go for me again.
“Where’s your brother?” I ask.
She shakes her head but never speaks. She’s still wearing the clothes I’d found her in, with dirt smeared across her face. I scrutinize her while I think about what to do with her, and I find myself looking back on my life with Lucas and questioning what it would have been like if I started again. Would I make the same choices?
I’m afraid I would have.
And I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake coming here.
I turn and hurry from her, but she follows me. I whirl on her and shake my head, hoping that she’ll listen if I’m stern enough. “Don’t follow me!”
If Lucas finds out, if he learns that I’ve been watching her or worrying that I’ve caused this child to starve to death and die out on the street, he’ll know I’ve fucked up.
And what if he gets rid of me?
I run and she dashes after me, though she’s a child and I can lose her in seconds, but just as I’m about ready to, she falls andhits down on her knees. I hesitate and turn, but when I do, I see the last person I want to see walking up behind her.
