At least that’s what the note said. His brother had placed Andy in a hospital where he could be helped by counselors as much as possible. I think part of the reason also was so that the doctors and nurses could keep an eye on him. It hadn’t worked, though. Andy used the sheet from his own bed to hang himself in the middle of the night.
I missed him. I missed them all. Except for Bernie.
I stood now in front of Owen’s house. It was just as I remembered. As I stood there, I expected to see Owen step out the door, smiling at me like he always did. He would come over to me and wrap me in his arms. I started to smile, but stopped myself. I knew that wasn’t going to happen. It would never happen again. It couldn’t.
Owen was dead. I’d killed him.
I hadn’t wanted to kill him. I’d loved him. He’d meant so much to me. There was no telling how far our relationship could’ve gone, how close we could’ve become. If only I hadn’t heard what I’d heard as I stood outside the door that day.
I’d heard everything he’d said to Andy. He’d confessed every crime he’d committed, almost as if he was bragging about it. I had to do what I did.
I’d listened as he told Andy about the problems he’d been having with his wife, Holly. He’d known she was going to leave him. He’d also known that she had been talking to my Aunt Elaine, who had advised her to leave him. Her advice had been to seek happiness where it was, and if it wasn’t with Owen, then it must be somewhere else.
So he’d killed them both.
The elderly lady who had lived across the street had seen him burying Holly’s body in Louis’ yard. So he killed her. Fearing that she’d told her husband before he’d gotten to kill her, he killed him also.
Owen, the man I’d fallen for so quickly, the man I’d given myself to, the man I’d let be a part of my children’s lives, had murdered six people. He killed my aunt, he killed his wife, he killed the elderly couple, he killed Bernie, he killed Jill, and he buried Holly and Bernie next door in Louis’ yard. He was about to kill Andy because Andy had seen Bernie’s boots in Owen’s hallway. Andy had questioned Owen about the boots. Owen would’ve done anything to avoid being caught.
I’d often wondered if he would’ve killed me. After all, I’d seen the boots too.
I walked up the steps to Owen’s house one last time. I looked at the chair where Owen had always sat. I placed the key in the seat and walked away.
I walked back to my house as the movers loaded the last of my belongings into the truck.
I made sure the kids were properly wearing their seatbelts. I got into the driver’s seat and pulled the seatbelt across my protruding belly and started the car. I wasn’t going to have any more arguments with myself over who the father of the child inside me was. I knew it could be Owen or it could be Bernie. I was hoping it was Owen’s child. But really, was one any better than the other? Bernie was a sick and twisted rapist. Owen was a murderer. But he had loved me. And I had loved him.
I chose to believe that Owen and I had created this baby out of the love we’d had for one another. Had he not been a serial killer, we would’ve had a great life together. That was the part that hurt the most. I knew what we could’ve had. But that was gone. I was now a single mother with two children and one on the way. And how long would it be before I was able to trust another man? Probably never.
I looked at my house one more time. I looked at the fence Owen had built for me and remembered how concerned he’d been about my safety.
Then, I pulled out of the driveway and onto Hewitt Street. I drove away, knowing that I would never return here. I couldn’t. It was too painful. I’d come to this street innocent. I was leaving as a rape victim and a killer.
No, I would never return to Hewitt Street.
####
About the Author
Kimberly A. Bettes was born in Missouri in 1977. Kimberly is the author of four novels and many short stories. She enjoyed eight months on the New York Times Bestseller List, and then she woke up. She lives with her husband and son, her snobby cat, and her dog in the beautiful Ozark Mountains of southeast Missouri, where she terrorizes residents of a small town with her twisted tales. It’s there she likes to study serial killers and knit. She is currently working on her next novel.
Connect with Me Online:
Twitter: http://twitter.com/kimberlyabettes
Facebook: http://facebook.com/kimberlyabettes
Smashwords: http://smashwords.com/profile/view/kimberlyabettes
My blog: http://kimberlyabettes.wordpress.com
Note to the Reader
When I was fourteen, I picked up the book Watchers by Dean Koontz, an author unknown to me at the time. I cracked it open and was mesmerized by the brilliance of the story. I was unable to put it down until I’d read every last word. I laughed, I cried, and I fell in love with the story and the style in which it was written. I was amazed at the way simple words on a page could evoke such emotion from me. As I closed the book, I stared off across my bedroom with a goofy smile on my face and I just knew this was what I was supposed to do.
I spent my summer that year writing my first novel, Adaptations. I worked my fingers to the bones, typing out page after page on an old typewriter. I stayed up late, using the quiet of the night to clack away at the keys. It took nearly two years for me to finish that novel, as the life of a teenager got in the way a bit. Between school and keeping up my social life, I struggled to find time to write.
What was the reward for all that hard work, you ask. Well, simply put, a full-length novel that, to my standards at least, is horrible. It’s not a bad story, don’t get me wrong. But when I look back at it with the experience and wisdom I have now, I see all the work that it would take to polish it into a book that suits my standards today. Who knows? Maybe one day, when I have nothing else to do, perhaps I’ll pull out that possible diamond in the rough, blow the dust off it, and polish it until it shines. After all, it will always hold a place in my heart. It’s my first novel.
My second novel, Annie’s Revenge, was written a handful of years later. It too is a great story, but as I look back on it now, I don’t love it as I loved it when I wrote it. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent more than ten years now handling it. Or maybe it’s because after all these years, I’ve found my style and my subject matter, my theme, and it just doesn’t fit. My husband tells me to throw it away. I can’t do that. I’ve never thrown away anything I’ve written no matter how horrible it is. It’s a part of me and is a testament to my thought process at the time. It too holds a special place in my heart, even if it isn’t the kind of story I would write today.
In the summer of 2010, I sat down at my laptop (a far cry from the days of clacking on the keys of an old typewriter) to write a short story for a novel I’d been toying with for years, Minutes to Death. Funny thing happened, though. Before I’d written two full pages, the story had become something totally different than what I was planning to write. It took on a life of its own and I knew that it was going to be a novel.
Three weeks later, it was complete. It was my best work to date, I felt. I couldn’t believe how the story wrote itself and how little time it took. I emailed each chapter to a friend as soon as I’d finished it, and was yelled at to write more more more! I did as I was told, and loved the final product, a novel called The Good Neighbor.
It’s the summer of 2011 now. I’m working on a novel called Rage. It is by far the greatest story I’ve ever written. I love the character and hate what I’m putting him through. This story tells itself in more ways than I could’ve ever imagined. I had a list of things I wanted to have happen, and some of them I just can’t do. Why? Because my main character says so. And he’s the boss. I’m just here to relate his story to you.
I’ve learned a lot through the years and have really tightened up my writing. The stuff I turned out years ago makes me cringe when I read it, while the work I do today astonishes me. I’m my own worst critic.
I’ve enclosed som
e excerpts from some of my other stories. Read them if you like, and please tell me what you think. You can comment on my blog or my Twitter account or my Facebook page. All the addresses are listed above.
Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. See you next time.
The following is an excerpt from Rage, my latest novel. Look for the Smashwords Edition in 2011.
Rage
1
Face down on my bed, I buried my face in my pillow and waited for him to finish.
“Tell Daddy you like it,” he said through grunts.
I ignored him. The son of a bitch may be married to my mother, but he was not my daddy. My daddy was dead.
“Say it, Brian,” he said behind me.
I still ignored him.
He slapped the back of my head. I peeked up from the pillow and saw his hands, one on each side of my head, giving him the leverage he needed to slam himself against me as hard as he wanted.
I stared at his hands. His fingernails were bitten off far past the tips of his fingers. Faded blue tattoos spell G-O-O-D across the fingers of his left hand and E-V-I-L across those of his right. I doubted there’d ever been a time when his left hand had prevailed.
I tried to stay relaxed. It hurt less that way. It still hurt like hell, but it hurt less. The pain was still intense enough to make me want to cry. But there’s no way I’d let him see me. No way.
I felt him tense and knew it was almost over. But I also knew that the worst part was getting ready to happen.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
He went at me harder now, grunting like a madman. Then, he stiffened and held his position for a few seconds before collapsing on me.
He was sweaty and panting and crushing me. It was hard to breathe. Just when I thought I’d pass out from the lack of air, he got up. I took a deep breath. I heard him zip his jeans and leave the room.
I lay there for a while, crying silently into my pillow. When I was all cried out, I got off the bed slowly, my backside burning. I made my way to the bathroom as quietly as I could to avoid drawing his attention. I sat on the toilet to rid myself of his stuff, and then showered. It hurt to do it, but I scrubbed myself to try to erase any evidence of him.
I hated him. More than I’ve ever hated anybody. I don’t know why my mother stayed with him. I don’t know why she ever got with him in the first place.
That wasn’t true. I knew why.
I slowly and quietly made my way across the hallway and back to my bedroom. It hurt too much to sit, so I lay on my side and did my homework. My mother wasn’t home and there was no way I was going to be around him without her.
After struggling through my math, I fell asleep thinking of all the ways I could kill my step-father.
2
Monday morning, I woke as usual. I got out of bed and threw on some clothes that my mom had bought me at a yard sale. The jeans were too short, showing my ankle, and the shirt nearly showed the top of my jeans. Most of my clothes fit me wrong, but I rarely got new clothes.
I stuffed my books into my worn backpack and headed to the kitchen. We didn’t have much to choose from for breakfast. I settled for stale cereal. Would’ve been nice if we had milk, but we didn’t, so I washed it down with a glass of water and headed out the door.
I walked to school as I always did. It wasn’t far. About a mile. I could’ve ridden the bus, but two of those assholes rode the same bus and I didn’t want to be around them any more than I had to.
I slowed as I got closer to the school. I just didn’t know how many more times I could drag myself into that building.
Maybe if it was just the bullies I could handle it. Or if it was just my failing grades it wouldn’t be so bad. But it was both. And sometimes, it was just too much to bear.
I put my books in my locker and hung my backpack on the hook inside. My first class was basic Algebra with Mrs. Schmitz. I hated it. I never understood what the teacher was talking about. Maybe it was because she was German and had a funny accent. Or maybe it was because she was dyslexic and wrote half the problems on the board backwards. Either way, I was flunking.
I walked into the room, books in hand. There were already a few students in their seats. I knew immediately I was the subject of their conversation. It was obvious the way they looked at me and giggled.
Stupid girls.
I didn’t really care what they thought of me. I didn’t like any of them anyway. I only liked one girl, and she didn’t hang out with the gigglers.
I walked on to my seat, pretending not to notice their eyes following me. Just like every day.
I sat down and began doodling in my notebook. I paid no attention as the rest of the class filed in and took their seats. I barely paid attention when Mrs. Schmitz began talking about square roots. It wouldn’t have mattered if I gave her all my attention. I just didn’t get it. That was evident when she told us to pass our homework papers one person to the left to be graded.
My paper went to Carly Hanson, the one girl in the whole school I actually liked. I’d had a crush on her since we were in third grade. That’s why it was so embarrassing when she handed me back my paper. I’d missed twelve. That was out of a possible fifteen. Another F. But I still smiled when I saw that she’d wrote ‘sorry’ on the paper.
I looked at her and she smiled and shrugged. She was so pretty. I knew she’d never be with me, though. That’s why I’d never asked her out. I didn’t want to make her suffer the embarrassment and harassment she’d have to endure.
We were assigned more homework and released by the bell.
I returned to my locker and put my Algebra book in my backpack. I grabbed my English Lit book and made my way down the hall, through the crowd. I kept my head down as I walked, trying not to draw attention to myself. It almost worked.
“Hey, Boozer,” said Dominic Hawkins. The sound of his voice made my skin crawl, and not only because it had already changed. He’d been hassling me my whole life.
I kept walking, pretending not to hear him.
“I know you hear me, Boozer Loser,” Dominic said. He was closer now and I got the feeling he was following me. That was confirmed when he knocked the book from my hand.
I watched the book skid across the floor and get stepped on.
I reluctantly looked up into the faces of Dominic Hawkins and his cronies. The four of them stood there, staring at me and smirking.
Dominic towered over the other three. Puberty had hit him harder and earlier than the rest of us. His brother, Garrett, stood to his left, a year younger and a foot and a half shorter. I could tell he didn’t like Dominic much and didn’t want to hang around with him, but Dominic told him what to do and if he didn’t do it, he’d beat him up or tell their parents.
To Dominic’s right was his best friend, Taylor Reynolds. Taylor, who was a little taller than me, stood glaring at me, arms folded across his chest. He tried to look mean, but he didn’t need to try. He was mean. Always had been.
Beside Taylor was Spencer Griffin. He was short and heavy and wore braces, which gave him a lisp. The other three boys might’ve made fun of him if he didn’t do everything they said. If they said jump, he asked how high. He did whatever he could do to impress them and seem cool.
And they all stood there staring at me now, wicked smiles on all their faces except Garrett’s. He looked like he wanted to run away. So did I.
“You hear me the first time, Boozer?” Dominic asked.
I considered not answering, just picking up my book and going on to class. But I knew they wouldn’t let that happen.
“No,” I lied.
Dominic stepped closer to me, towering over me. “No what, Boozer?” His face was only inches from mine. This close, I could see the fuzz above his lip and I knew he’d had sausage for breakfast. Not only was there a piece still caught in his teeth, but the smell was potent.
“No, I didn’t hear you the first time.”
&
nbsp; “He heard you,” said Taylor. Of course he’d agree with him. If Dominic said the world was flat, Taylor would back him up.
“I didn’t,” I said.
Dominic pushed me. “Maybe you need to clean out your ears. Or we’ll clean them out for you.”
The bell rang. Dominic shoved his finger into my forehead and the four of them walked away.
I grabbed my book off the floor and went to class.
Everyone was already seated when I walked into the room. They all stared at me when I walked in, but I was used to it. They’d been staring at me my whole life. It’d be weird if they stopped now.
I struggled through English Lit. I just didn’t get it. We were reading The Rhyme of the Ancient Sea Mariner. What did the albatross have to do with the story? And what was an ancient sea mariner anyway?
When Mrs. Wayne gave us a pop quiz, I knew I’d failed it. We didn’t grade it in class, but we didn’t have to. Out of the five questions we were asked, I knew the answers to none of them. But I knew I got my name right. Although, now that we’d passed the papers forward, I couldn’t even remember if I’d put my name on my paper. It wouldn’t be the first time.
I returned to my locker, hoping I wouldn’t run into Dominic or his buddies. I’d been trying to avoid them since Kindergarten. I was getting tired of it.
Luckily, I made it to my locker, switched my English Lit book for my History book, and made it to class without incident.
We had to take turns reading sections out loud. I hated it. I wasn’t good at reading. That wasn’t a surprise to anyone. I wasn’t good at anything. Except maybe pretending I didn’t hear the snickers and sneers as my classmates laughed at the way I stuttered and stammered while I read.
But I pushed through and was glad I’d had a short paragraph to read.
The Good Neighbor Page 19
