Page 45 of Overkill

Mourningkill High was a huge, three-story, red-brick building. Big white Grecian columns held a gabled roof that covered the front steps of its entrance. It had been built in the federalist style, complete with decorative glass black shutters. It probably belonged in a Hallmark film.

Especially during the fall, when the air was crisp, I could almost fool myself into thinking it wasn’t so bad here…

A slowly cruising police SUV grabbed my attention. I tucked my head low, hoping against hope today was not the day. Now was not the time to be handcuffed and branded a murderer—not where the whole town could see.

My heart raced, pounding in my ears as I averted my gaze when the damn SUV halted in front of me. The crossing guard stopped them to let two kids on bicycles cross.

The crossing guard, Mr. Tristan Goss—Goose, as his friends seemed to call him—returned to the other side of the street, swinging the red stop sign beside him. His bright reflective vest was a contrast against the surrounding brown and dying trees.

The breeze kicked up the leaves, making them dance over the white lines on the broken asphalt, settling into the base of a rose bush, stuck in its thorny leaves. They were like little domes of perfectly manicured red blooms that lined the side streets. Perfect, like the rest of the town.

In clusters of manicured flowers, I was a single dandelion they sprayed with poison in the cracks of concrete.

Miriam and Marc were biologically Grays. They looked like them, too. Blond, pale, and lean. The only thing they got from mom—the only trait they shared with me—was a slightly smaller, delicate nose.

The town accepted them more than me. They always had. Teachers never liked me. Coaches, administrators, even random shopkeepers had looked at me sideways because I didn’t belong.

After mom died, Luke was all I had.

There was nowhere else to turn.

I didn’t blame myself for it. Not really. I was just a child.

I picked myself up, got myself into a good university, used mom’s life insurance to pay for it and escaped. Then Luke found a way to take it all back. To make me come back to him, to beg for his love…and for the money that should have always been mine. Then the threat of hurting Miriam…his own flesh and blood!

What I did was impulsive, and severe. I’d built the cage that I was no stuck in with a bottle of pills, and a glass of 25-year-old single malt whiskey.

I was back and feeling like a child again. Only this time, I had more responsibilities and the albatross of my sins around my neck.

I lifted the collar of Greg’s jacket and inhaled deeply. It was okay that I hadn’t seen him in a couple of days. Having his jacket felt like he’d come back. Like someone hanging their hat by a particular door or leaving their favorite sweater.

I didn’t know if this jacket was his favorite, but it was soft with wear and smelled like leather and oak. I wished I could get a candle of the scent for my bedroom.

Life offered few comforts, so I savored them when I could. Even if it was just an illusion.

That old familiar bell rang—a bell they hadn’t replaced in at least twenty years. The shrill, annoying metal thing accompanied the sound of opening doors and the starting of engines, along with the chatter of loud teenagers.

A couple of kids threw a football across the big lawn. A group of artsy misfits, clad in black with neon hair and that sharp, “too cool to care about being cool” look, walked down in some seriously high shit-kickers. Had I had a spine back in those days, I might have dressed like them.

Miriam walked down the front steps alone, her book on Russian literature clutched across her stomach. Maybe I was biased, but of all the kids, she was the most effortlessly awesome. In comfortable jeans, a sweater, and a simple, vintage backpack, she was studious, calm, and apparently more observant than I ever gave her credit for.

She walked towards me, stopping at the crosswalk beside Goose.

The Grays and all their cousins. Equestrians and entrepreneurs funded by old-rail money invested in paper mills before settling on ranches and horses and becoming one of the big agra owners in North and South America.

Jon-Williams Gray and his brother, Roy Smith-Gray, were technically my stepcousins. Beside him was Ian Gray, the little snot-nosed new hope of the Grays. Academically gifted and going places. Probably to an Ivy League education.

I’d gone to Columbia, but of course, I never counted.

They were with their other friends, Brayden and Slater or…something like that. Between them was Marcus, smiling too wide and laughing too hard at their jokes. A young man trying too much to fit in.

Goose stepped out into the middle of the street, holding his stop sign up. Miriam smiled at me as she jogged across the street, backpack bouncing on her slim shoulders.

The world slowed. The temperature dropped. The leaves took their time floating across the median.

An Edison Cyphercar’s wheels spun, the ugly dull gun-metal with its pointed nose, and futuristic design that looked like it had been plucked from a bad 1980’s B-movie squealed. The tires burned, sending smoke into the air as it lurched forward, its idiotic, sharp headlights pointing right at Miriam.

“No!” I screamed as my legs and arms pumped before I knew what I was doing.