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Dr. Yang returns, and we’re saddled with an exorbitant amount of paperwork, an identification card that gives Riley access to the main buildings, and inexplicable shame.
It bears down on us as we leave the administration hall, passing the topiaries sculpted into the shapes of the school’s initials and the massive fountain at the center of the campus.
How a town as poverty-stricken as ours even keeps a school like this afloat is beyond me; the Ivers are all alumnus, so I’m sure there’s donor money with them, and the Montaltos and Bianchis donate to any and all philanthropic efforts at the behest of the police, to make them look legitimate.
The rest must be coming in from tuition.
Riley’s shoulders slump as we make our way to the parking lot; her blue eyes dart from one surface to the next, avoiding what’s directly in front of her, and when we make it back to my black BMW, she gets in on the passenger side without a word, putting in headphones before I’ve even started the car.
My fingers flex against the steering wheel as I shift gears, reversing out of the spot, the shame from being outcasts compared to the students at KTP morphing into annoyance. Riley isn’t my kid, and I shouldn’t have to be the one trying to get her into a program so she graduates on time.
As usual, though, I’m the only one she seems able to depend on, despite the fact that I despise the responsibility.
But if I’m trying to distance myself from LeeAnn’s narrative, trying to distance myself as her son, the most out of character thing she could ever do is care for one of the kids she brought into this world.
So I’ll keep showing up for Riley, even though it kills a part of me every time I have to. Even though I wish she didn’t exist in the first place so she wouldn’t have to endure this life, and so I wouldn’t be reminded constantly that LeeAnn didn’t keep me.
When I drop her off at the trailer, I double check the living space for needles and alcohol, fully intending to take Dr. Yang’s probationary period seriously—a kid that just got busted and expelled for underage drinking at a frat party definitely doesn’t need the temptation, especially when she doesn’t think she did anything wrong.
I raise my fist to knock on her bedroom door when I’m ready to leave but think better of it at the last second. She probably doesn’t want to see me anyway.
Loading the dated dishwasher before I exit, I tuck a hundred dollar bill into Riley’s raincoat hanging up beside the door and lock the doorknob behind me, an unsettling feeling washing over me as I walk to the car.
The feeling of being watched.
Sliding in behind the wheel, I sit there for a moment, scanning the trailer park for vehicles or people that seem out of place. Always on the lookout, since getting those flash drives and seeing Kieran and Craig get shot on two separate occasions.
I’m on high alert, hustling to get my affairs in order, refusing to wait helplessly while they come for us.
Now I’m coming for them.
* * *
“KTP is a good school,” Fiona says, the sound of her chewing drowning out her words. They’re mushed together, almost indecipherable, and I turn off the cylinder saw I borrowed from Kieran as she continues. “I didn’t have any problems making friends while I was there.”
“You didn’t transfer at the end of your high school career, either. And you’re an Ivers; people can’t ignore you even if they want to.”
“Yeah, but I’m dramatic, as my loved ones put it.” I hear her pop a bubble against her lips and can imagine her pacing her bedroom right now, cooped up all day taking care of her mother and working on assignments for classes, fingers dying for something to sink into.
Something to distract.
If I wasn’t busy and we were at that point, I’d be over there now with my face buried between her legs, feasting on her until she begged me to finish. But my appointment couldn’t be moved, and she’s stuck babysitting her mother.
It’s only been a few days since I saw her last, but I can feel the need to be in her presence, to feel her skin against mine, to breathe in her floral, candied scent as it expands, pushing out room for anything else in my body until I’m a writhing, desperate shell of a man.
Settling for a phone call would typically be beneath me, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Especially when that horse has no idea what I’m doing while she rambles. No idea how her voice sends waves of calm down my spine that typically I can only access through violence.
But I know it’s her, because I haven’t even begun the fun part of my evening, and I already feel somehow sated.
It feels dangerous, this attachment, but I don’t let myself dwell on the potential for problems. Instead, I set my saw down and walk over to the knife on the metal table next to the exam bed, adjusting the blade in my palm.
Pressing the speaker button, I set the phone down on the table as Fiona talks about yearbook and the heavy presence of cliques at KTP—because when everyone comes from money, how else do you define yourself?—and slide the bandana up the man’s sweaty, wrinkled forehead, revealing hollow sockets.
His eyeballs rest on his cheekbones, still attached to their nerves, but I sense the anesthesia I gave him earlier is wearing off as his hands start twitching.
“... think she’ll do just fine,” Fiona’s saying now, splitting my focus as I lift the sharp edge of my knife to the optic nerve, slicing back and forth in a sawing motion.
