“Sit back down!” I yell, pointing to the ground with one hand and pointing the gun at her with the other, but she’s unfazed. There’s not an ounce of fear on her face. Hers is a look of pure defiance as she pushes herself up to standing position and gives me a huge smile.
“You’re not going to shoot me, and you know that as well as I do, honey.” She cocks her hip. “And here’s the thing we both know too.” She pauses like she’s giving me a chance to jump in, but I don’t know what to do, so I just stand there pointing the gun at her. “The police aren’t coming. There’s no reception down here. They keep it that way to keep the teenagers away.”
Anxiety fills me as I remember the annual meeting where the city council votes yes every year to keep it a dead zone. My heart sinks, and I try to hide the realization, but it’s too late. She’s read the recollection. She takes a teensy step to the side, followed by another.
“I’m just going to go, sweetie, so we can both get on with our lives, okay? Put this whole thing behind us, you know? You’ll never see me again, I promise.” Her eyes are brazen and bold underneath her long lashes. She puts her hands up as she slowly steps backward. “Look, you did your best. Nobody’s going to fault you for that.” She gives me a patronizing nod like she’s the one feeling sorry for me.
“You’re not going anywhere.” But I sound like a kid. A babysitter who’s been left alone with their younger siblings trying to get them to do something, and they’re just laughing.
Which is exactly what she does. She tilts her head back and laughs. Then starts walking.
“Bye, Casey.” She waves her fingers at me, then bolts. I sprint after her, but she’s too fast, and I’m spent within seconds. I’ll never be able to keep up with her through the woods. My legs are mush. Muscles shredded.
“Stop!” I scream at the top of my lungs, but she pays me no attention in the same way the man ignored her when he tried to get away. “Stop!” I scream again, louder this time. “Or I’ll shoot.”
But rules don’t apply to her. They never have. I can’t let her get away. If she gets into the trees past the party pit, the police might never find her. My stomach clenches. Sweat dribbles down my back.
I raise the gun and aim at her, slowly traveling down to her right calf. My hands are clenched around the magazine. My fingers tight on the trigger. I don’t take my eyes off her as I pull it back. The gun doesn’t make a sound, and then a loud crack shatters the air. She lets out a yelp like an animal who’s been shot, and she plummets to the ground, shrieking in pain.
My fingers go loose on the trigger. My arms drop, but I’m not letting go of the gun. She’s wounded, but she’s not dead, and until she’s in handcuffs, I don’t trust her. I hurry over to the pile of leaves where I left my phone, keeping one eye on her and the other scanning for it. A puddle of blood forms around her as she lies bleeding in the tracks left by the truck.
“Help me! Ohmigod! Help me!” she cries, clutching her leg and rhythmically rocking.
I hear the distant sound of sirens just as I spot my phone. Either my call went through or someone heard gunshots and called the police. It doesn’t matter. They’re coming. I could cry with relief, but I force myself to be strong. Only a few more minutes. I’ll be home to Harper soon.
The sirens roar through the housing development, drowning out the sound of Genevieve’s wails. It’s really over. She’s not going anywhere. I stopped her reign of terror. I can’t believe it, but I did. Thank goodness, she’s not the only southern girl who knows how to shoot.
THIRTY-EIGHT
SAVANNAH HILL
The cheap motel door reverberates with thuds. Brett bangs again before I reach it; at least I hope it’s Brett and not some other creep staying here. There’s no mistaking his terrified voice as he pleads, “Savannah, open up, hurry up, come on.” Each word is punctuated by a frantic staccato beat.
I peek through the peephole just to be sure he’s alone. His eyes are manic. Hair wild. His usual composure totally gone. His face is ashen white like he has COVID again. His eyes dash back and forth, panning the hallway on each side.
I open the door, and he shoves me out of the way, scrambling inside and pulling me along with him. He’s panting and out of breath. He flings the duffel bag onto the floor and slams the door behind us. His hand trembles as he secures the string latch, followed by the dead bolt. He twists the lock in the doorknob for extra safety. That’s when I notice the blood. It’s all over his lower body like he peed himself in it. His jeans stick to his left leg.
“Oh my God, Brett! What happened?” I bend down to look at the wound, but he puts his hand over it like I’ll hurt it just by getting close.
“She shot me! Your crazy bitch of a mom shot me!” he shrieks.
“She shot you?”
“Yes! She shot me,” he cries like it’s not real for him either.
“I can’t believe she shot you.” My mom is evil, but she does all her acts behind closed doors and a picture-perfect Christian smile.
He bends the cheap blinds and furtively peeks out the only window in the room. The small table in front of it holds my uneaten sandwich and long-grown-cold soup. Satisfied there’s nobody in the hallway, he collapses in one of the chairs next to the table and pushes my leftovers aside. He hangs his head, running his hands through his long hair.
No wonder the drive took him so long. He was supposed to be here two hours ago, and I paced the floor for every one of those minutes he was late. There wasn’t any way to get ahold of him either. We left our phones behind in our separate dorm rooms, where the police will find them when they come looking for us. It’ll also be where they ping instead of Houston when they try to figure out our location. It’s going to be a while before they get to us, though, because they have plenty of other stuff with Genevieve to figure out first. Their heads are going to be spinning for weeks trying to sift through all her lies. Maybe months.
I grab the other chair and pull it around so I can sit in front of him. “Tell me everything.” Part of me still can’t believe Brett went through with it. This was a big part to do all by himself. The rest I’ve been able to coach him through. I sat by his side through the phone call and the deliveries. Was on the phone when he grabbed her in the parking lot and spoke in his ear. I was always the one telling him what to say and what to do.
But this?
He had to carry today out on his own, and he did it. I’m so proud of him. Genevieve used to always say that if you needed something done right, then you had to do it yourself, but she was wrong about that. She was wrong about a lot of things. Including me. Especially me.
He twists around and peeks through the blinds another time. Sweat rings stain his shirt.
“Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question, but what else can I say?
“No, I’m not okay. I’m shot, Savannah. Your mom shot me.” He shivers like a wet dog and grips his sides. “She shot me.” He shakes his head like he’s still trying to get the reality of what happened to sink in. “The bullet just kinda bounced off my leg, I think. Maybe? I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never been shot before. I don’t know what it feels like.” He tries to take a deep breath, and it comes out in quick gasps. “But if you get shot, you’d think it’d go through the leg, and nothing came out the other side. Or maybe it’s stuck in there somewhere? Bullets can get stuck inside.” He gulps the air again, but he’s too worked up to get any inside. His anxiety strangles his words.