If You Wrong Us

by Dawn Klehr

  At first, he just kissed her bumper a few times. I told her to stay below the speed limit and keep a firm grip on the steering wheel. Until he tried to push her onto the shoulder, at which point I tried to help her lose him. I knew the area well and felt that a few well-timed turns could easily do the trick.

  It worked. She made a turn and he was long gone. At least that’s what we thought.

  The Elements of a Crime:

  Definition of Homicide

  In addition to understanding the elements of a crime, it’s also important to understand the definition of said crime. In my case, we’re talking about the death of a person, or persons.

  Homicide.

  It’s important to note that not all homicides are considered crimes. Technically, homicide includes all types of killings of human beings. Criminal homicides include first and second degree murder, with varying degrees depending on the magnitude of the crime. This is where premeditation and intent come into play.

  Manslaughter usually refers to a killing that falls short of murder. The lowest form of manslaughter is involuntary manslaughter. This means that though the accused didn’t intend to kill, they are responsible for a death because their actions were negligent or reckless.

  Now there are some laws that allow for exceptions in some killings—considered “justified” homicide. Self-defense is one example. And that is key …

  It could make all the difference.

  13

  Becca

  On December 3, 2012, we took Brit off life support. She’d been in a vegetative state for more than a month. We should’ve done it weeks before, but Mom and Dad couldn’t do it. They were praying for a miracle—my non-believing parents.

  It’s true; there really are no atheists in foxholes.

  We all stood around my sister. Mom and Dad each held a hand. I couldn’t look them in the eyes. The ceremony of it was incredibly stupid. Brit had left us thirty-two days before. All the life had already seeped out and now she was nothing but a pile of meat—pale and soft.

  Anyone who’d met Brit knew there was never anything pale or soft about her. She was always flushed, her eyes constantly dancing with mischief. And tough. She even loved hard.

  So dying like this … it wasn’t right.

  Yet I stood there too, not ready for the end.

  The room was cold and static. The only sounds came from the whoosh of the ventilator and the beeping of the heart monitor. It wasn’t comforting or peaceful. It was creepy and strange and Brit would’ve hated it.

  The nurse came in and disconnected the ventilator and we all held our breaths.

  “No,” I called out in a voice that didn’t sound like my own. Mom looked up at me, tears streaming down her face.

  “This isn’t how it was supposed to be,” I whispered in my sister’s ear. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  But it was happening. The mechanical breathing sound faded away and the beeps of the heart monitor slowed. Brit was still. Her little mouth didn’t even try for a last breath. It took only a few minutes to her limp body to shut down.

  That’s when it really sunk in. It was my fault and I couldn’t take it back. I worried that maybe I really did intend for this to happen. Maybe somewhere deep down, I wanted my own life and this was the only way to get it. Maybe I wanted my sister dead. The thought made it hard to breathe. So I pushed all those feelings away and settled on anger instead.

  I stayed there like that—bent over Brit’s bed with my cheek pressed up against hers. I stayed there until they pulled me away.

  The damage was done. It was over. I really believed it was, anyway. Sadly, I had no idea how bad the pain would get.

  14

  Johnny

  Becca takes the wrench from my hand and goes to work on the Jeep. After taking too long, she discovers she can’t disconnect Travis’s battery cable either. It’s corroded with rust and crap and won’t budge.

  I keep a lookout for any random people in the parking lot. We’ve been lucky so far. Except for the cat, we’ve been alone. It won’t stay that way, so we have to work fast. Every second counts at this point.

  Becca glances down at her cell phone and bites the side of her cheek. Her fingers fly across the phone. “It’s time.”

  The plan was to have Becca text Travis after the tournament. He has a hard-on for some gamer chick, so Becca hacked into the girl’s account and now she can both monitor and send messages from GamerGirl’s line. She thought it’d be the best way to get Travis where we need him to be.

  I rush over to Becca’s car and riffle through her bag while she lowers the hood of Travis’s Jeep. She moves toward me—purposeful, quiet, and determined. I hand her the syringe and she nods.

  But she’s not where she’s supposed to be. I’m not where I’m supposed to be. We were supposed to have more time. Recognizing my panicked look, she smiles, easing her hands down to tell me it’s going to be okay. Then a finger to her lips.

  Shhhhh.

  He’s coming.

  I slide into the driver’s seat just in case we need to make a quick getaway. That’s if I can make myself hit the gas. Not like I have a choice—if the options are getting caught or fighting a panic attack, I’ll take the panic attack any day.

  A figure appears from the side of the building. I’d recognize that gait anywhere; everything about Travis is burned into my brain. Sometimes I think I know him better than I know myself.

  “Ow, ow,” Becca starts howling from the front area of the Jeep. Travis turns toward her. I wait and watch, ready to act if I need to.

  For a complete sociopath, Travis moves really quickly.

  Becca is crouched down, like a tiger, ready to pounce.

  He moves closer.

  “Are you okay?” I can hear his muffled voice through the crack in the car door.

  She moans some more. Then, when he gets close enough, she stabs him with the syringe. Direct hit, right into the neck. Becca stole the drugs from the hospital two weeks ago.

  Travis bats at her, confused, but she quickly jumps out of his reach. He pushes himself upright and points at her before placing his hand to his neck. He rubs the injection site and leans his head against the brick wall.

  “What happened?” His voice trails off and he slides down the wall, taking some skin off his face as he goes down.

  Becca wasn’t kidding. The shit works fast.

  He slumps into a pile and Becca rummages through his pockets, placing the contents into her bag.

  “Okay,” she calls out to me.

  My body on autopilot, I join Becca and pick up the pile of Travis. I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or what, but he’s much lighter than I expected.

  I follow Becca to her car. She opens the door to the backseat, which is covered in plastic. It reminds me of a scene from Dexter and I work to keep the bile at bay as it climbs up the back of my throat. Dropping Travis across the seat, I finally see his comatose face.

  No.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and reopen them again, trying to make sense of what they’re telling me.

  It can’t be.

  My gaze focuses in on the thin lips, long nose, pudgy face. It’s him, but it’s not.

  “Just get in,” Becca snaps. “We’re running out of time.”

  “But … ” I say, taking another look.

  “Now, Johnny.” She spits out the words.

  Stunned, I go to the passenger side of her car and get it. Becca slowly pulls away, careful not to bring attention to us.

  I close my eyes and try to pull it together.

  Then, I look in the backseat again. This time, I’m sure. I’m positive. The guy sprawled across the plastic sheet in the back is definitely not Travis.

  15

  Becca

  I left the room first. I couldn’t stand to be in there any l
onger. The florescent lights; the stale ammonia scent; the look on my parents’ faces.

  Down the hall and around the corner, the special waiting room was empty and the refrigerator was full of juice boxes. They’d become a comfort for me in here—something sweet to coat all the bitterness rotting my insides.

  I closed my eyes and tried to block out everything. I tried to forget, until light footsteps caught my attention. I kept my eyes closed because I didn’t want anyone to bother me.

  Please, please just go away.

  “Becca?” a small soft voice called out. It was a voice in between—deep and crackling, yet still high enough to sound feminine.

  Ethan Kent.

  He walked over to me carrying a bouquet of daisies. It was like a scene out of a Disney movie: a just-pubescent boy with short sandy hair and proper manners making a kind gesture to set everything right.

  “I brought these for your sister,” he said.

  He handed the flowers to me; I didn’t take them. They were bundled together in that cheap plastic wrap, devoid of all smell. They reminded me of Travis. Appealing on the outside, but nothing of value on the inside.

  “I’ll just set them here,” he said, putting them on the seat next to mine.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” I asked him. “Did your perverse brother put you up to this?”

  Ethan didn’t need to answer. I knew Travis had sent him here to show me he was in control, that he could do whatever he wanted. But this time, he’d messed with the wrong person. I’d been under my sister’s thumb for as long as I could remember, and I wasn’t about to be controlled again. Never again.

  That day, a fire ignited in me. Heat that had been there under the surface, waiting. This move by Travis was the match that set it ablaze.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, taking a step backward.

  “She’s dead. She’s dead! ” I jabbed his chest with my finger.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We didn’t know. Travis didn’t think you’d see him, so he sent me. He’s worried about you.”

  “He should be worried about me.” I stood up, physically unable to be still. “He should be very worried.”

  Ethan’s face twisted into something less Disney and more Stephen King. He trembled as his eyes cast down.

  “Don’t say that,” he said.

  I smiled. Ethan was scared of me. I stood a little taller, taking up more space in the room.

  He took another step back.

  I put on this new role like a welcome down jacket in a frigid Detroit winter. It was warmth and safety. I was finally the person on the offense rather than defense. I was in control and it was a heady feeling. One I’d eventually become hooked on.

  “Don’t ever come back here,” I said with my hands clamped around Ethan’s shoulders, giving him a stern shake. “You tell your brother the same thing.”

  I shook him again. Hard.

  “Stop,” he said. “Stop, Becca.”

  The words didn’t register. They didn’t make sense to me. I’m not sure how long we stayed like that. I’m not sure how bad I hurt the kid. Nothing made sense until I woke up in a ball on fourth floor, in a place affectionately referred to as the Nut Hut.

  I’d been there before.

  16

  Johnny

  My girlfriend has lost her mind. Seriously lost it.

  “What the hell, Becca?” I’m yelling now as she drives toward the site, just as we planned. All except for the fact that we, oh, have the wrong person in the backseat of our little crime scene.

  She turns on the radio, and the streetlights shine on her smooth, pale skin. She could just as easily be driving to the library. Instead, we’re carting around a hostage. The White Stripes sing in the background—it’s that song “We’re Going to Be Friends.” The sweet track about school and numbers and letters and walking with a friend. The polar opposite of what’s happening in our car. It’s sinister. Sick, really.

  “This is not Travis,” I hiss at her.

  “Yes, Johnny. I realize that,” she says without any sliver of emotion.

  “Then why are we driving?” I’m completely confused about this change of events, but it doesn’t seem to bother her in the least. Something’s not right.

  “I actually had this planned,” she explains.

  As the words sink in, I fall back in my seat. It’s like she’s coldcocked me in the face. “What? You had it planned to grab Travis’s kid brother?”

  I should have recognized Ethan immediately—I’ve gotten to know him too, this past year. During all that time watching Travis, his brother was always around, and I know Ethan’s habits almost as well as I know Travis’s. But with the same walk and mannerisms as his brother, he had me fooled for a minute.

  “Yes, I planned it,” Becca tells me as she turns down the radio.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  “He’s only a kid, Becca. He’s, like, thirteen or some shit.”

  “Again. I realize that.”

  “I don’t think you do.” I grab her arm and she swerves the car a little. Maybe she’s more freaked than she’s letting on. I need to work that to my advantage.

  “Bec.” I soften my voice now. “He’s. A. Kid.”

  “Yeah, well, so was my sister.” Her eyes turn icy again and I can’t help but feel her pain. “Please, please calm down,” she pleads. “I’m just following your lead.”

  “What?” I ask, shocked again.

  “You had the idea for the gun.” She glances in my direction. “You were clever, Johnny. I upped my game as well with another idea for back-up—to help us get what we want. Some additional insurance. Don’t you think that’s wise?”

  For the life of me, I can’t remember how I fell for this asinine plan. But I desperately want it to be over so we can finally put all this to rest. Finally do something about Travis instead of all the talking. Talking. Talking. Talking.

  We talked a lot in those first few weeks. I’d go the accident site and watch her work. She had all these theories and ideas. And when one didn’t pan out, she’d move on to another. I started looking forward to going there, which was disturbing. But being around Becca helped. Sometimes we’d even talk about things not related to the accident. I told her about the colleges scouting me and my troubles with my grades. I told her how I thought I was letting Mom down.

  “So I’ll tutor you,” she said, like it was the only logical solution.

  “Becca, I’m getting D’s in almost all of my classes,” I said. “I don’t need a tutor, I need a miracle.”

  “Same thing.” She laughed.

  “You really think you I could get my grades up to meet the college requirements?” Even my guidance counselor seemed to have lost hope.

  “With my help? Yes, I do.”

  Damn, she was confident. Not in a cocky or conceded way; she was just so sure of herself. She made me believe it too.

  I started to get excited until I realized there was a problem. One gigantic issue.

  Money.

  I had nada.

  “I know a way you could work it off,” she said.

  “How?” I asked, willing to do just about anything.

  “Help me make things right.”

  That’s how we got started. It didn’t seem evil or criminal at first. We were just looking for the person responsible for the accident. Investigating. Well, that’s what I was doing. Becca? She was looking to prove what she already knew. That girl was always two steps ahead in everything she did. This was no different.

  Once we had that proof? Well, that’s when things began to change. That’s when I began to get glimpse of what Becca was really capable of. She kept everything bottled up, but once we had a target—Travis—she let holy hell rain down.

  She messed with him for almost a year. Started rumors about him on socia
l media; used his account for her school lunches; reported him to the police for vandalism; placed him at the scene of another hit-and-run. Real detailed, calculated shit. Nothing stuck, but it raised suspicion.

  At the time, I blamed it on her grief, on her parents, on anyone else I could besides Becca. But now there’s no one left. And I’m so ready to finish this and be done with her games.

  “Johnny.” Becca gives me the softest kiss when we stop at the light. I wish I could ignore the effect it has on me, but I think my body will always respond to her. “Trust me, our opponent will be more responsive this way. We’ve captured his pawn.”

  “In what way will he be more responsive?” I bristle, the betrayal thick in my throat.

  “We needed this leverage.” She steals a glance at that leverage in the rearview mirror before accelerating. “Something, someone, he cares about. He’ll know we’re not messing around.”

  “So what’s the plan with Travis then?” I ask, not daring to look in the backseat. It’s the only way I can get through this. “How will we communicate with him?”

  “Oh, we’ll grab him too,” she says, changing lanes.

  “When?” My stomach turns, trying to process the new information.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? What are we going to do with the kid overnight? His parents will realize he’s missing.”

  “Not if we get Travis to help cover for us,” she says.

  “Why would he do that?” I ask, not following.

  “Because we have a hostage, dumbass,” she snaps.

  I wince at her words and slide farther toward my door, growing desperate for a way out.

  Becca’s expression softens as she moves a hand toward me. She knows that was a low blow. We have unwritten rules. She never insults my intelligence, and I never call attention to her overall social awkwardness. But everything is unraveling tonight.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I just can’t take it when you don’t trust me. I’m doing this for us, Johnny.” The speedometer inches its way up.