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Whap.
Something nails him from behind. I can’t see what in the mist. But he jumps to the left, glancing quickly behind him.
Whap.
The mop handle whacks him in the shoulder, moved by hands that aren’t my own.
“What the fuck?” he growls at me. “What are you doing?”
I can’t answer, of course. I can’t tell him that his rage and wickedness trapped them here. They died hating him. They died screaming and begging for mercy. Until their souls were doomed to haunt him, or maybe his presence haunts them. I’ve never been sure. But he has harmed and killed and hated. And now, he is joined with them, all of his victims, and they’ve waited a long time for this moment.
Across the kitchen the gas range flares on. All six burners raging hot. A low shadow darts through the mist, shockingly close.
The Bad Man leaps back from the stove, closer to the dishwasher.
I understand what I must do next.
I feel power. I feel peace. I’m not a towering inferno of rage or vengeance.
I am a daughter, a sister, a friend.
I’m a girl who doesn’t want anyone to suffer anymore.
Cabinets shake. Pots rattle. Glass suddenly sweeps off a distant shelf and shatters to the ground. The mist seems to come alive. Shadows, crouching black forms, here, there, everywhere.
The Bad Man backs up again, deeper into the boiling mist. He’s forgotten about his knife. He doesn’t know how to fight what he can’t see. But he feels the threat now. I can see it in the growing rage and horror on his face.
He thought he could destroy us. He thought he could snuff out our lives as carelessly and callously as he wanted. He thought he could get away with anything, because who was to stop a man as wicked as him?
He thought wrong.
My mother strokes my cheek. Soothing. Encouraging.
The shadow darting by again. An oomph as something lashes out against the Bad Man’s legs. He howls in frustration.
Then, it’s all very simple.
I step toward the Bad Man. I pick up the mop at his feet.
The backs of his legs are pressed against the churning conveyor belt, as he stabs the mist with his knife, slashes at the thick steam.
“Now.” I hear the voice as clear as day.
And I follow its command, lifting the heavy mop all the way up, till the head is level with his chest.
—
AT THE LAST MINUTE, THE Bad Man turns the blade toward me.
As the kitchen door slams open, the FBI agent races through, D.D. lurching in behind her, covered in blood.
“Bonita, duck!”
I understand that they want to shoot him but I’m in their way. I should step back, let them do their jobs. But this isn’t about them. This is about me and my sisters and my mother.
Because I can feel them, even if no one else does. I can see them, even if no one else wants to. And I know them, my sisters in pain.
Together, we shove the mop head into the Bad Man’s chest. Together, we drive him back with superhuman strength until he topples onto the conveyor belt, and the sanitizing cycle once more kicks to life.
