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My parents’ relationship was far from perfect. It was littered with disloyalties, bad years, and other people.
But. It. Still. Worked.
“I hope that in time, you’ll forgive me,” Dad said. “But just in case you don’t, let me assure you, Belly-Belle—I will never forgive myself.”
I needed time to think.
“Thanks for the talk. I’m going to go ahead now and scream into my pillow for a while,” I announced, grabbing a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels from the pantry on my way up to the guestroom.
I was still wearing my canary-yellow swimsuit.
I stopped by the stairway, holding the railings for dear life as I twisted my head back to look at him. He was still standing in the same spot in the open-plan kitchen.
“One more question.” I cleared my throat.
“Yes?”
“What was so wrong with Sophia?” I bit out. “Why was she so fucked up?”
“She couldn’t have any children,” he said gravely. “That was what was wrong with her. That’s why her husband left her. He married another woman three months later and went and fathered three sons.”
Poor Sophia gave up on love too.
And in the end, she lost.
Maybe that’s what losing was, giving up on love.
Eighteen Years Old.
It’s a weird thing, obsession.
Sometimes it’s fantastic.
Sometimes it’s horrible.
Take artists, for instance. They’re obsessed with their work, aren’t they? The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Spielberg.
They work their butts off to ensure every note, every word in a script, every shot is perfect. That takes obsession.
Then there are other obsessions.
Take me, for instance. I cruised through my teenage years harboring a dark, horrible secret. My cross-country coach sexually abused me then raped me. I ended up having a miscarriage because of all the stress and trauma he put me through.
See, now this obsession is not so good.
I’ve spent the last three years plotting my revenge, and the day has finally arrived.
I’ve been keeping tabs on Steve Locken throughout the years.
He moved away from Boston to Rhode Island to start fresh. Brenda left him shortly before she gave birth to their second son, Marshall. Brenda is back in New Jersey now and is married to a guy named Pete. They have a daughter together. She seems happy. Or as happy as one can be after what her ex put her through.
I know Locken doesn’t see his sons often. That he started working at a local school in Rhode Island, and that he has a girlfriend named Yamima.
And I know that he is still sexually abusing young girls.
This is what obsessive people do. They dig and dig and dig. Until their fingernails are gone and their flesh is raw.
I sniff around. Get into the social media sites of some of the girls on his team.
They post about him.
They share pictures of him.
They have secret groups about him.
One even bragged to her friends that she jerked him off after assembly one day, in broad daylight, they were so horny for each other.
In other words: my conscience is clear. Steve Locken doesn’t deserve to live.
This is where it gets a little dicey. I’ve never killed a person before. But I spent the last three years of my life going to Krav Maga classes three times a week, and I take my dad’s Glock 22 to the woods, where I shoot tin cans lined up on logs. Massachusetts has crazy gun laws, but my dad used to work in law enforcement before he got his office job.
The Glock sits in my purse right now as I drive down to Rhode Island.
It’s a nice summer day. Only days before I head off to college. I know Yamima, Steve’s girlfriend, is out of town at a conference. She’s a realtor and while at the conference, she is sharing a room with her colleague, Brad, who is dumb enough to elude to this on his Facebook profile.
What comes around goes around.
Steve is alone at home. He drinks two beers every night in front of the sports channel. I’ve watched him carefully all summer break, hiding behind the bushes of his beautifully restored craftsman house after telling my parents I was pulling double shifts at a burger shack to save for college.
Steve has no cameras installed anywhere around the house. One day, I overheard him telling Yamima that all of those cameras are connected to the internet, and he doesn’t want anyone hijacking tapes of what’s going on in his house.
Steve gets up every morning at five-forty-five and is out the door for an eight mile run by six.
So today, when he slips out, I slither in. When his garage door rolls shut, after he leaves the neighborhood in his car on the way to the trail where he runs, I sneak in. I open each Corona Premium bottle in his garage fridge and pour crushed Ambiens and a little rat poison into them, screwing a bottle capper I brought with me to make them appear new and turning them upside down.
