Killer

by Heather C. Leigh

  Silver eyes. Staring into mine as a bullet rips through her skull. I watch as the life drains out of the beautiful eyes of the girl in my arms. Then, a fraction of a second of fiery agony and… nothing.

  I drop the envelope like a hot coal and clutch my head. “Britt? Why are you acting like this? Are you okay, baby?”

  Keller’s sweet endearment goes unnoticed. He steps forward to comfort me and I let out a primal scream, thrusting my arms out, palms up. “Stay away! Don’t touch me!”

  The memories keep coming, one after another. Now that the vault locked and buried deep in my mind has opened, they crash over me in a bone-chilling surge of death and darkness.

  The parking lot. A girl with a crush looking for a cute boy. Disappointment when he isn’t there. Approached by a smiling girl with… silver eyes.

  Silver eyes just like Keller’s.

  “Britt.” Keller holds out his arms, as if trying to calm a frightened animal.

  “Don’t!” I sob hoarsely, cries ripping from my chest one after another as the long-suppressed memories fracture my mind, Britt on one side and Britton Reeves, victim, on the other. “I can’t… I can’t be here right now.” Air becomes a precious commodity and I suck in one ragged breath after another.

  “Britt, baby, don’t do this. Tell me what’s going on!” Keller sounds frightened and confused, but I can’t worry about him when my psyche is literally splitting in two.

  “Just leave me alone!” I cry, flinging open the door and running for the elevator. Keller steps out of his condo, intent on chasing me. “Stay the fuck away!” I scream as loud as possible, my voice choked with tears.

  Keller flinches, his expression devastated. He watches with those damn silver eyes, the same ones I stared into as a life was snuffed out.

  I can’t. It’s too much. The elevator doors open and I step in, my heart breaking as they close, cutting me off from the only man I’ve ever loved and throwing me into the shadow of my past.

  12

  Keller

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

  I punch and kick at a section of wall next to the front door of my condo until it’s pretty much pulverized into scraps of dusty drywall and battered studs. My hands are torn to shreds and my feet swollen and bruised, like I give a shit. Physical pain is something I can deal with. The gaping hole in my chest is another matter altogether.

  I forgot how much it hurts—caring about someone. Watching helplessly as Britt cried and screamed, her eyes wild with terror… terror from looking at me. The agony is almost equal to what I felt when I lost Kinsey, guilt from her death rearing its ugly head as well. Whatever made Britt lose it was my fault somehow, just like Kinsey’s death.

  Crumpled on the floor, exhausted and bleeding, I see a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. Ignoring the shooting pains in my limbs, I crawl a few feet and retrieve the object from under one of the barstools and turn it over. My hands clench around the thick paper, sending fresh streaks of pain through my busted knuckles.

  The invitation. Britt was holding it when she flipped out. Is this what caused the strong woman I know to fall to pieces in front of me? Why?

  Not knowing is driving me insane.

  Hours later, my head is throbbing. I’m sitting on my couch in the middle of the night—or is it early morning?—feeling confused and sorry for myself. I managed to clean up my hands and am pretty sure one knuckle might be broken, but could care less. The invitation sits on the glass and chrome coffee table in front of me, unopened. Taunting me with its secrets.

  Why would this letter frighten Britt? My mind churns through the possibilities. Maybe she recognized my name from the papers? Maybe she knows I’m the asshole that killed his little sister.

  No. The reasons behind Kinsey being at the school that late were never released. Dad, me, and Logan. We’re the only ones who know. We never told the police my role in Kinsey’s death.

  I flinch when another thought crosses my mind and force myself to go to the desk wedged in a far corner of the room to boot up my laptop. By the time the browser comes up, I’m in a cold sweat.

  Blood thumps against my eardrums as I type.

  North Atlanta Prep Shooting

  Fuck. I take a deep breath and steady my hand.

  Enter

  Hundreds of results come up, the most recent being news covering the ten-year anniversary of Atlanta’s biggest tragedy. My fucking father’s brilliant idea.

  Nausea and rage eat away at my insides. The fact that my dad thinks he can make up for missing Kinsey’s entire life by throwing some sick, pointless party and erecting a memorial at the school makes me want to rip out his throat with my bare hands.

  Further down the screen, I click a link for a news report from ten years ago. After the page loads, I have to close my eyes and swallow several times to keep from throwing up. Photos of the victims line the top of the article, including one of my beautiful little sister, smiling and happy and full of life.

  Tears prick my eyes when I open them back up, the moisture blurring my vision. I dash them away with my bruised hands, determined to see this through no matter what it costs me emotionally. I need to know Britt’s involvement in the shooting, if any. I need to make things right. I need her.

  The beginning of the article covers facts I already know, so I skim quickly. A decade ago, these same facts were repeated on the news over and over and over until they became a low hum in the background of my guilt and selfishness. The principal, vice-principal, school secretary, football coach who happened to stop by the office to pick up some forms, the clerk, school nurse, seven other students who were part of an after school club, and my sister were all pronounced dead at the scene of multiple gunshot wounds along with the shooter, who killed himself. Shaking, I read further and stop, blinking in disbelief.

  One survivor, an unnamed student with traumatic brain injuries from a bullet to the head.

  One survivor.

  Student.

  Head injury.

  How did I forget there was a survivor? Probably because I was a complete, near suicidal mess at the time, drinking myself into oblivion every day.

  The image of Britt lying on the cold concrete in the Nevada Arena, her entire body rocking with violent tremors as a seizure took hold, enters my mind. Britt hit her head pretty hard, but is it possible that wasn’t the only reason for the seizure? Is Britt the lone survivor of the crime that took my sister’s life?

  Out of my chair and flying down the hall, I make it as far as the bathroom sink before retching, the contents of my stomach forced from my body. It takes forever to stop heaving, my guts clenching again and again until I’m empty and my sweaty shirt is sticking to my chest.

  On autopilot, I brush my teeth and change clothes. Further online searches yield no results. The name of the survivor was never released to the public.

  I’m not scared of much. Hell, I’m not scared of anything. Except this. The past. Facing my actions and admitting my role in the tragedy. No matter the cost to me, I need to make things right with Britt. Without thinking, I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers and grab my keys, leaving the condo without looking back.

  I’m coming, baby. No fucking way am I going to let you down the way I did my little sister and my mother. You’re not running away from me. We’ll face this shit together.

  Britt

  My head feels as if it’s wrapped in gauze and weighs a thousand pounds. That thought causes a moment of déjà vu. When I realize why, fear stabs into me like a dagger to the heart. This is exactly how I felt after waking up from the coma—head heavy, mind foggy, disconnected body. Am I back in the hospital?

  When I try to look around, my eyelids refuse to cooperate, staying closed despite my efforts to open them. My limbs feel like lead and testing each one, I can’t get a single one to move. The only part of me responding to the situation is my heart, which is now pounding erratically as my body holds me prisoner.

  “Still out, huh?” The voice is di
storted through the murky sludge in my brain, but it’s familiar. “Just sleep.” A cold hand caresses my face, brushing my hair back. I want to slap the hand away. It feels wrong, creepy. With chills rippling across my skin, I slip back into darkness.

  The next time I wake up, my eyelids open on command. I’m in a dark room. Specifically, on a bed in a dark room. A hint of light peeks through a crack along the curtains, but isn’t enough to give me a clue as to what time of day it is. I try to lick my lips but my mouth is too dry, my tongue sticky and swollen. The muggy air is tinged with a chemical scent. When I try to sit I tense up and freeze.

  Some sort of fibrous rope is cutting into my wrists. My hands are tied together. I test my feet only to find those bound as well. Panic rises quickly, gripping me in its tight fist. Breathing becomes difficult as my lungs squeeze the air out and refuse to let more in. My pulse rockets sky-high, and I have to fight the urge to scream.

  My hands and feet are bound. Oh my god. I’m tied up. Have I been kidnapped?

  Freaking out, I curl into a ball. Apparently, I’m tied up, but only hand to hand and foot to foot, not to the bed I’m lying in.

  Breathe, Britt.

  I focus on staying calm so I can get the hell out of here. After a few moments of deep breathing, I clench my abs to swing both feet over the edge of the bed and can’t… because of the arm wrapped around my waist.

  I’m not alone. The realization sends me over the edge.

  Unable to contain the hoarse cry that rips from my constricted lungs, I scream until I wake whoever is in bed with me. I shout over and over and over, not caring that my voice eventually becomes ragged and sound no longer comes out. Hands grab my shoulders, holding me down on the mattress. I keep screaming silently, now struggling to get out of my assailant’s grip. But I’m weak and dehydrated, my head filled with cotton balls. It doesn’t take long for me to realize the futility of my actions, so I let my body go limp and slam my lips together.

  “What’s wrong, Britt? I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

  The man pulls me into his arms, holding me on his lap while rocking back and forth. My rapidly clearing mind is spinning with questions, none of them making any sense. I break down and ask the most important one, my voice no more than a soft whisper.

  “Max? What am I doing here?”

  “Shhhhhh,” he continues swaying back and forth on the bed with me in his arms, using one hand to caress my hair.

  Using as much strength as I can manage, I place my bound hands on his chest and shove, falling off of his lap and onto the mattress. Before Max can react, I scramble to my hands and knees and scurry back on the bed.

  “What is going on, Max? Why am I tied up and why are you in bed with me?”

  Max lifts a hand and I let out a gravelly cry, swinging at him with my bound fists. Max’s expression of tenderness and concern turns into one of fury. I stop cold, terror slithering around my spine. The look on Max’s face is so frightening it chills me down to the marrow.

  “It’s that bastard, Killer. He’s turned you against me, Britt. But that’s all in the past. Here, we’re free of him. We can be together now.” His disturbing mask slips away. Max is now smiling warmly, gazing at me like an old lover.

  In shock, I stare at him, a man I worked with for two years. A man I accepted rides from, who has been in my apartment. A man I thought I knew and now don’t recognize at all. Keller was right all along in thinking something was off about Max. Nobody else noticed a thing. He fooled everyone.

  “Max,” I say, trying to sound calm even though my hoarse voice wavers. “We’re not together. We were never together. You can’t tie me up and keep me here.”

  “Shut up!” he shouts, smacking his hands down on the bed. Max jumps to the floor, standing over me as I cower away from him. “You were almost there, Britt. You were almost mine! Two years I worked on getting you to be with me and as soon as that… that… disgusting Killer shows up, you go and forget all about me!”

  Max grabs my shoulders, strong fingers digging painfully into my flesh. He might not be a fighter, but he’s a trainer, and not weak by any means. Especially against a small, bound female.

  “M-Max…” I struggle to ignore the pain of his fingers digging into my arms and stare into his eyes. They’re predatory, cold, like empty glass orbs placed into two holes in his face.

  “You’re mine!” he roars. I squeeze my eyes shut and duck my head to avoid looking at that lifeless stare. “I don’t care how long it takes. You will come around, Britt.” He tosses me back like a rag doll. I bounce on the bed helplessly and curl up into a tight ball.

  Between the loud hammering of my heart and only having one functional ear, I don’t hear Max move around the room. I certainly don’t hear him prepare the cloth. When Max’s hand slides around my mouth and nose, his other hand holds the back of my head, keeping me in place.

  “Shhhhhh, it’s okay, Britt. It’s for your own good.”

  Max’s words don’t affect me because a sweet, medicinal scent stings my nostrils with each ragged inhale. I know now I’m in bigger trouble than I ever imagined. I can’t fight, I can’t move, all I can do is breathe in the chemicals until my world fades to black.

  Keller

  “Britt! Open the goddamn door!” I pound my fists on the door to her apartment. “Britt! Fuck!” I thread my hands through my hair as I pace back and forth on her front step. Spinning on my heel, I slam my hands into the thick slab of wood again. “Britt! Open up! Now, goddamn it!”

  Multiple calls and texts have gone unanswered, and now she won’t come to the door. The need to speak to her about the invitation, the shooting, has me at the edge of coming completely unhinged.

  Several of Britt’s neighbors peek out of their own apartments to see who is making such a loud disturbance. No one challenges me or tells me to fuck off, and who would? I must look insane. Wearing loose shorts and tight T-shirt, covered in tattoos, with an expression on my face that likely screams of violence and danger.

  I contemplate kicking her door down. It wouldn’t be too difficult, despite the outrageous number of deadbolts Britt has in place. A dozen strategically placed kicks is all it would take, but I can’t chance getting arrested. Hell, someone probably already called the cops.

  Shit. I have to leave. Not only would an arrest get me kicked out of the AFL, but being locked up would keep me from finding Britt, and that’s something that I can’t allow to happen.

  More frustrated than I’ve ever been in my life, I slam my hands into the door one last time and stalk back to my car. Pounding on the steering wheel doesn’t help lessen my agitation either. I breathe slowly to calm down, having absolutely no idea what to do next. The car is stifling, so I turn on the engine and lean back on the leather seat, letting the air conditioning cool my sweat-slicked skin.

  While I wait for my temperature and blood pressure to return to normal, I notice the lot is only half full. It’s not surprising, being a Sunday afternoon and not a workday for most people. This time, I scan the lot with a purpose and realize Britt’s red BMW is nowhere to be seen.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  If I had just paid more attention I would have known Britt wasn’t here. She doesn’t use her car very often, usually walking to and from work just the same as I jog every day. Traffic is a bitch around here and taking a car makes very little sense. So Britt went somewhere a little further than the gym. Where would she go?

  Fuck. I don’t really know jack shit about her. Not really. How can a person get so completely under my skin and invade my soul without me knowing such simple things as her favorite restaurant, or hobbies, or even if she has any family? Because I’m a selfish prick, that’s why. Wait…

  Family.

  With a new plan in place, I jerk the car into gear and head for the gym.

  “Come on, Roxie. You helped me before. Why can’t you help me again?” I lean on the front counter where the tall woman is manning the juice bar, blending up a shake for another f
ighter.

  “Killer,” she says as she pours the thick pink liquid into a tall cup and hands it to the guy at the other end of the bar. “It doesn’t feel right to invade Britt’s privacy like that. Besides, it could get me fired.”

  I growl, slamming a fist down on the counter hard enough to rattle the glassware. “Fuck privacy! I need to talk to her. It’s urgent!”

  Roxie frowns, looking at me but not looking at me. Not at my eyes anyway. She’s staring somewhere around chest level so she won’t have to see the monster. But the monster is gone. At least for now. The monster wouldn’t give a shit about Britt or the shooting or anything. Keller does.

  “Roxie, look at me.” She flinches, hesitant to do as I ask. “Please?”

  Roxie bites her lip and reluctantly flicks her eyes up to mine. For once, she doesn’t look away. I don’t see the fear that transpires when people look into my eyes. No, Roxie’s expression softens. She looks… sympathetic.

  “Killer. Get Gabriel’s permission and I’ll give you what you want. Okay? That’s the best I can do.” Roxie reaches out and pats my hand before turning to the sink to wash out the blender.

  Gabriel isn’t here on Sundays unless a fight is coming up, so I whip out my cell phone, find his contact, and hit send. It rings so many times, I’m about to give up when the call connects.

  “Fala.”

  I nearly sink to my knees in relief.

  “Gabriel, it’s Killer. I need your help,” I rattle in rapid-fire Portuguese.

  “Killer? What is the matter? Are you okay?” The man sounds genuinely concerned for me, something I haven’t heard from another person in over ten years.

  “No,” I say, my throat closing up as I think about Britt. “It’s… it’s Britt. I screwed up, Gabriel. I need to see her. It’s very important.”

  “So go see her,” he says simply.