Chris runs his palm through his damp hair then sits up, legs splayed out like breadsticks. His T-shirt is white cotton, sleeveless, revealing splotchy freckles on the tops of his arms. He’s gym-thin, lean. Narrow in the chest. The boys at home would say he “needs a good feed.” They’d grab him up in their stodgy hands, stuff him full of fatty meats, fried chips, and yeasty beer until his chest and waist bloated like theirs.
I can’t imagine Chris growing up in Kangaroo Bay. Can’t imagine him with a beefy dad or yanking open a fish stomach like a packet of chips. Silky guts slide out, and Chris stumbles away, pale and appalled.
“I spoke to your fifth-grade teacher, Miss McKenzie.” He pauses before adding in a low voice, “She remembers you.”
“Why were you talking to her about me?”
Why were you talking to her at all?
He picks at the Corona label, peeling it off in slow, wet strips. “She told me about the girl in your grade…the girl who sat next to you that year.” He looks up, eyes cloudy like an ancient fish. “Amy Anderson?”
I stuff my fists in my pockets, wait.
“Something bad happened to her.” Another slow, soggy tear.“And if you don’t mind me saying…something bad seems to happen to a lot of people in your life, Minnow.”
I shift in the doorway, staring blindly at the ceiling. “If you spoke with Miss McKenzie,” I begin, “then you know it wasn’t me who stabbed Amy.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you were questioned about it.”
“Amy lived.” My gaze snaps to his. “She admitted it was Trav who did it.”
“Yeah.” He pauses. “But that wasn’t the first time someone tried to kill the poor girl, was it?”
“Yes, it was.”
He studies me with piercing scrutiny. “Then why did she beg your teacher to move seats? Why did she beg to get away from you?”
“We had a falling-out. Ten-year-old girls argue.”
“But most ten-year-old girls don’t try to drown each other. Do they?”
Silence.
“That’s what Amy told your teacher.” He half grimaces, like he’s got a stomach cramp. “And that’s why she asked to be moved away from you. Even stranger,” he continues, “that creek you tried to drown her in is on Soldiers’ Road. The same place you took me to.”
He scoots forward. “The place Donny Granger was killed.” After a pause, he continues, muttering, “Allegedly. And where your mother just happened to be found.”
I shake my head, looking at the pile of shirts on the bed, then letting my gaze drift up to his taut face. “Yes, Chris,” I begin, “I’ve been meaning to tell you…”
I slink to the bed, drop to my knees, crawling across the navy cover. I cross my legs, eyelids fluttering shut as I whisper, “When I was ten years old, I killed Donny Granger. I dragged him out to the woods and slit his throat. Later, for the hell of it, I killed my mother. Then just for something new and different, I tried to drown Amy. Two years later, I also somehow managed to murder my father.” My eyes snap open. “You know, my drunk, violent, paranoidfather.” I gesture to my five-foot-four frame. “I overpowered them all, you see.”
He gives me a withering look that says,All right, all right. I getit.
“For the record,” I say, “my father could still be alive.”
“Heath could have killed him,” Chris protests.
I shake my head. “He didn’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because the night my father went missing, Heath was at home with me,” I tell him truthfully. “You don’t forget where you were the night your dad went missing.”
“Heath could have snuck out.”
“Maybe. But the word is that Terry Hargrave got to Dad first.”
“The guy who owns the pub?” He frowns, putting the pieces together. “…So he was the one questioned over your dad’s disappearance?”
