That time was now. SSR—sustained silent reading. The book was about firefighters and the heroes they were. The sacrifices they made. How they put their lives on the line each and every time they battled a fire.
Kelly didn’t care about any of that.
What Kelly liked was that there were a few real-life aftermath photos of major fires and pictures of burns, some of them horrific. How the book, despite its message on the bravery of firemen, remained in Miss Riley’s third-grade classroom with such pictures was a mystery. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Much like her daily warning at lunch for everyone to steer clear of the book during SSR, so too had she warned others to never tell Miss Riley of the pictures in the book.
And no one ever did.
But as far as leaving the book alone come SSR time? Becky Sole wouldn’t hear of it. Becky didn’t want the book, didn’t even like the book, but to be told “hands off” by a fellow student? She wouldn’t hear of it.
Becky Sole was new.
• • •
“What are you doing?” Kelly asked.
Becky Sole had hurried to the bookshelf before Kelly could get there, snatching up the book. “I’m reading this book for SSR,” she said.
“Didn’t you hear me at lunch?”
“This is the classroom’s book,” Becky proclaimed defiantly. “You don’t own it.”
Kelly took a deep breath through her nose and let it out slowly. “Give me the book.”
“No!” Becky slammed the book flat to her chest as though she’d sooner die than part with it.
Miss Riley, alerted by Becky’s shout, approached. “Kelly? Becky? Is something wrong?”
“She says this is her book,” Becky said. “I told her it was the classroom’s book, not hers.”
Miss Riley looked down at Kelly. “Kelly, there are plenty of other books for you to read. Why don’t you grab one of those?”
Kelly looked up at Miss Riley and smiled. “Okay.”
Becky strode off triumphantly with the book and took a seat at her desk.
• • •
Kelly watched her the entire time during SSR. It was apparent Becky did not care about the book at all. She flipped lazily through the pages with barely a glance for each. When she arrived on the pages with the burn victims, a sudden look of fright came over her, and she quickly flipped past them.
It was now blatantly obvious to Kelly that Becky’s need to have the book was simply to show her up. Nothing more. Worse still, when SSR ended, Becky did not return the book to its spot on the shelf, but instead tucked it away in her desk and then glanced back at Kelly with a condescending little smile.
Any other child would have immediately gone running to the teacher.
Kelly didn’t say a word.
• • •
Show and tell.
Becky Sole’s mother had entered the classroom five minutes prior, carrying the unmistakable wire cage of a hamster—the wood chips, the hanging water bottle, the exercise wheel.
“This is Roger,” Becky said proudly, lifting the small cage high for all to see.
Boys smiled; girls cooed and begged to hold it. Becky refused, of course, but did strut from desk to desk with the cage, allowing everyone to see Roger up close.
When she arrived at Kelly’s desk, she looked down at Kelly with a wary eye.
“He’s cute,” Kelly said. She stuck her index finger through the thin metal bars.
“Don’t!” Becky jerked the cage away.
“What’s wrong?” Miss Riley asked from her desk.
Becky spun around. “She tried to touch him.”
“Look but don’t touch, Kelly.”
Kelly nodded toward Miss Riley. “I’m sorry.” Then to Becky with a smile: “I’m sorry.”
• • •
Becky Sole had asthma. The classroom had gotten firsthand experience with this fact on Becky’s very first day. She’d had an attack. Anxiety of being the new kid and all. The scene had been a frightening one: Becky crying, struggling to breathe; Miss Riley desperately fiddling in Becky’s desk for her inhaler and then cradling Becky in her arms while the girl used the device; Miss Riley gently stroking Becky’s brow and consoling her.
Not a single child in the classroom could tear their eyes away from the scene. A few had even started crying themselves out of empathy or fear. Kelly Blaine had been no less transfixed than the others, but she did not look on with fear or empathy for the new girl. She looked on, though unable to articulate it so at only nine years old, as someone with a keen understanding of natural selection: Becky’s affliction made her a weak member of the herd. A disgusting thing that would never thrive.
Kelly took note.
And so today when the kids returned from afternoon recess, the boys lining up at the sink in the back of the classroom to tilt their heads to the side of the faucet to crudely gulp water, the girls chattering and laughing, Miss Riley standing patiently at the head of the class for everyone to eventually take their seat, Becky Sole made an even greater scene than she’d done on her first day.
Her hamster lay dead in his cage. Becky did not scream; she shrieked. An ear-splitting cry that spun, then froze, everyone.
Miss Riley rushed over to confirm Becky’s discovery. The hamster was indeed dead, though the cause was not immediately evident. It simply lay on its side, lifeless.
Becky’s hysteria quickly prompted another asthma attack. Miss Riley, as she’d done just one week prior, hurried toward Becky’s desk for her inhaler—only to discover it missing.
Miss Riley tore through the desk, tossing its contents to the floor without a care.
Still no inhaler.
Becky’s condition worsened. She was on all fours now, her sobbing becoming less and less without the oxygen to fuel it. The classroom, previously stunned into silence, had now erupted. Those who’d cried at the scene one week ago were in hysterics, as if they too were in the throes of an attack. A few of the braver students had darted from the classroom for help. By the time that help—in the form of Mrs. Mills from across the hall—arrived, Miss Riley was a woman possessed, rifling through Becky’s desk as though it contained some sort of hidden bomb quickly ticking its way down to zero.
When Mrs. Mills rushed toward a crumpled Becky, she called over to Miss Riley in desperate tones, insisting that she needed to leave the desk alone and help her get Becky to the nurse’s office immediately. Miss Riley appeared deaf to Mrs. Mills’ cries. Her only response, fueled by what had now seemingly become her obsession, was: “WHERE THE HELL IS IT?!”
More teachers arrived on the scene; Miss Riley eventually came to her senses and left the desk, rushing toward the aid of her student; and Becky Sole was carried off toward the nurse’s office, where several emergency inhalers were kept.
• • •
Two things had hit Kelly Blaine during the whole ordeal. Again, being only nine, she might have been hard-pressed to articulate them, but she felt them just as sure as she felt her own skin.
One of those things was irony. The other was shame.
The irony came when Miss Riley was tossing the contents of Becky’s desk all over the place. The book Kelly treasured so much, the one Becky had not returned to the bookshelf but kept in her desk to spite Kelly, had landed mere inches from Kelly’s feet.
The shame came from not having the foresight to take the emergency inhalers from the nurse’s office as well.
Still, suffocating the hamster during recess had been amusing. And of course she had her book now.
• • •
Becky Sole was sent home. Miss Riley, still visibly shaken, announced that the remainder of the day was to be SSR.
Make that two for irony.
2
Autumn 2012
Joan Parsons had the biggest daytime talk show on television. All the top celebrities. Unlike most daytime talk-show hosts, however, Joan Parsons also had a knack for news. Real news. Well, as real as news could get on daytime TV without entirely succumbing
to bad taste. Still, she was a magician at getting exclusives—one-on-ones with those smack in the middle of whatever drama was sweeping the nation.
Her guest today was Kelly Blaine, the eighteen-year-old girl who’d recently been acquitted on several counts of murder along with aiding and abetting known serial killer Monica Kemp, sister to mass murderers Arthur and James Fannelli. The trial had been big news. Any legitimate connection to the infamous Fannelli brothers over the years was big news.
And so, finally breaking her silence months after her acquittal, Kelly Blaine agreed to one—and only one—interview. She chose The Joan Parsons Show. Every single American would be watching. Perhaps none with more vested interest than Amy Lambert and Domino Taylor.
• • •
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
Cell phone balanced between her chin and shoulder, Amy Lambert uncorked the bottle of Chardonnay and poured herself a glass. “You’re not going to make me drink alone for this, are you?” she said into her cell.
“Not a chance,” Domino Taylor replied on the other end. “Got a bottle of Belvedere in the freezer just begging to be cracked.”
Amy looked at the digital clock on her microwave. 2:45. The Joan Parsons Show began at 3:00. “Better get cracking then. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to have a buzz going before it starts.”
Domino chuckled. “Twist my arm.”
Amy heard him begin to busy himself on the other end. The clink of ice cubes in a glass. The satisfied gasp after the first sip.
“Atta boy,” she said.
“Where are the kids?” he asked.
“After-school playdates. Figured it was best if they were out of the house when I watched. Caleb would have probably been oblivious to it, but you know Carrie—little pitchers and then some.”
Domino chuckled again. Then another little gasp after a sip followed by a grunt and a long sigh, the unmistakable sounds of a man Domino’s size taking a seat on the sofa.
Amy did the same, took the remote from the coffee table and turned to the proper channel. On the screen was a less-than-reputable daytime talk show, where a young woman sat between two young men, the caption at the bottom of the screen reading something about waiting on the results of a paternity test to see who was the real father. Amy hit mute but still kept a shameless eye on it as she spoke.
“Think you’ll recognize her?” she asked.
“Kelly? Of course.”
“You know they’re gonna have her done up like a victim, right? An angel even?”
“And that’s why we’re drinking.”
Amy smiled. “Call you when it’s over.”
• • •
Amy was on her second glass of Chardonnay when the show began. The hour-long segment was to be devoted entirely to Kelly Blaine, though Amy would have bet the remaining bottle of wine (and she did not like to part with her wine, thank you) that she—along with Domino, Monica, and those delightful douchebags, the Fannelli brothers—would be getting a few shout-outs too. Maybe even Monica’s psycho dad, John Brooks. Hooray.
Commercial over, and here we go. Close-up of Joan Parsons first, dressed in her classiest no-nonsense garb, her straight blonde hair healthy and vibrant, teeth impossibly white and impossibly straight, fifty-year-old skin looking closer to thirty (something that Joan had always laughably credited to nothing but clean living and consistent hydration).
“She was a troubled little girl that bad luck seemed to follow her entire life. That bad luck would come to a terrifying head when, at only sixteen years of age, Kelly Blaine would meet serial killer Monica Kemp, sister to the infamous mass murderers Arthur and James Fannelli. What would transpire after that for Kelly Blaine was, quite simply, the things of nightmares. Kelly, thank you for being here with us today.”
Quick cut and there she was. Kelly Blaine. Amy’s first reaction was shock, specifically at her attractive yet modest girl-next-door appearance. Deliberate, no doubt. She was playing the victim, after all, but…
But what, Amy? Were you expecting a confident knockout like Monica? Amy’s knowledge of Kelly came from Domino and what she’d read in the news or what she’d seen in court. She had not spent the “quality time” with Kelly that she had with Monica and the Fannelli brothers. Thus today it was as though Amy were seeing Kelly Blaine for the first time, and the innocence the girl was projecting threw her.
Yes, she had been expecting a Monica Junior—gorgeous, arrogant, looking like the cunning assassin she was. Kelly Blaine (again, no doubt deliberate on the part of the producers) looked every bit the antithesis of Monica. She did look like a victim.
But isn’t that what Domino had told Amy on more than one occasion? That what made Kelly so dangerous was how innocuous she appeared? Those big brown eyes? That long brown hair that occasionally (deliberately?) fell over those big brown eyes to mask what truly lay within? That diminutive stature (she couldn’t have been more than five-two and a hundred and ten pounds)? That seemingly docile way she carried herself, almost as though she were incapable of even a modest shout?
“Thank you,” Kelly said.
“What made you decide to finally break your silence so long after the trial, Kelly?”
Kelly shifted in her seat, looking uncomfortable. Real or an act? Amy wondered.
“I wanted to tell my side of the story, I suppose,” Kelly said.
Joan Parsons nodded with an understanding and nurturing face. No mystery to that bullshit display. If you asked Amy, Joan Parsons was just as much a psychopath as little Kelly there, each about as equipped with compassion for anyone but themselves as they were equipped with a penis.
“You feel that despite being acquitted on all counts, there are still many who believe you are guilty,” Joan said.
“To an extent, I am guilty,” Kelly said. “I did do many of those terrible things I was accused of.”
“And you’ve never claimed otherwise, have you?”
“No. But I have always claimed that I wasn’t myself at the time. Monica Kemp’s influence was very strong. She abused me both physically and mentally on a daily basis. When I disobeyed, the punishment was…” She paused, head down, long dark hair hanging over her eyes. Her mask.
Joan Parsons handed Kelly a tissue. Kelly took it and dabbed at her eyes, raised her head, and took a deep, steadying breath.
“Are you okay?” Joan asked.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “When I disobeyed, I was severely punished. She burned my parents alive and made me watch.”
The audience gasped. One woman could be heard crying out.
“After that, I don’t know, I guess I just broke. I became numb…like a zombie.”
Joan put a hand to her chest and shook her head.
“All the things I did after that,” Kelly continued, “helping Monica abduct Ben Jane and Domino Taylor, assisting in their torture in the Pine Barrens…I never denied doing any of that. I just pleaded my case and hoped that the jury would understand that I was a sixteen-year-old girl who was brainwashed by a psychopath.”
Joan Parsons leaned in and put a hand on Kelly’s knee. “Well, the jury did understand.” Hand still on Kelly’s knee, Joan then turned her head toward the audience. “Kelly was acquitted on all charges.”
The crowd applauded as though they were hearing this news for the first time.
Kelly smiled. It lingered too long. A cat with the canary if there ever was one. “Better reel that in, girl,” Amy said.
As if hearing Amy, Kelly immediately dropped her head and let her long brown hair fall over her eyes again.
Amy downed the last of her wine in a gulp. “Good kitty.”
• • •
The middle of the show was surprisingly tame for a Joan Parsons gig. Kelly kept playing the woe-is-me card, the it-was-all-mean-old-Monica’s-fault card.
The murder of seventeen-year-old Devon Haye in the Hamptons?
Monica did it.
The murder of Stephanie Sands, Vice Chairman
of the Board of Directors at Stratton Grove Youth Ranch for Girls?
Monica did it, then framed me for it. It’s how she initially blackmailed me to obey her. Woe is me.
The charred remains of the three Russian men found in the ruins of Monica’s “House of Horrors” in the Pine Barrens?
Monica did it. Well, Domino Taylor killed them, but he had no choice. They were trying to kill him on Monica’s orders. It was self-defense.
And speaking of that “House of Horrors,” why did you burn it down, Kelly?
I finally came to my senses. I was trying to save Domino and Ben. Setting it on fire was all I could think of in my addled state.
When Monica left the blazing scene in the Pine Barrens and sped toward Amy Lambert’s home with the intention of killing her?
I knew absolutely nothing about that. I was busy hiding in the freezing cold woods, praying Monica wouldn’t find me. I was so relieved to hear that Amy Lambert had survived and actually managed to kill Monica instead.
(“Fucking right I did,” Amy had muttered during that segment).
And when Domino Taylor tracked you down six months later, only to bring you into custody, despite you trying to save his life?
He was trying to do the right thing, I guess. I don’t know. I only wished he realized I was trying to save him.
Amy had groaned during that one. She bet her remaining bottle of wine she had chilling in the fridge that Domino had groaned too.
More and more of the same. Monica did it. Woe is me.
Then it got good.
Joan Parsons finally unsheathed her claws for what was to be the final segment: someone from Kelly Blaine’s past was about to make a guest appearance.
3
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Domino sipped his Belvedere Vodka and ice, equally as unamused as Amy had been during most of the show thus far. Kelly was playing the martyr. Not surprising, really. He’d expected it. The bullshit about setting the “House of Horrors” on fire in order to save him and Ben Jane had made him laugh out loud. At least that was amusing. Domino knew better. Kelly Blaine was a murderous psychopath. Monica Kemp was a murderous psychopath. People like that, despite any similarities they may share in horrific needs and desires, will ultimately clash. Too many cooks in the kitchen and all that.
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 74
