If You Wrong Us

by Dawn Klehr

“Well, that’s how it started. I thought we’d make a good team. But this?” she says, pointing to the two of us in bed. “This is something I couldn’t have ever predicted.”

  I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. But the fact that she thinks it’s no big deal that she befriended me for this plan? That she tricked me? She doesn’t get it. She honestly doesn’t get it, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain it to her.

  “Did you pick me because I’m an easy target?” I continue to push, sitting up now. “Easy to control?” I ask.

  Because I’m stupid?

  “No, I picked you because he hurt both of us,” Becca says. “I knew you were in as much pain as I was. The only thing good that’s come of this.” She runs her hand down my arm. “Us. I’m not ashamed of reaching out to you. It was the best thing I ever did. The smartest move I’ve ever made.”

  Again, she’s so confident, so sure. It’s hard not to believe her.

  “You don’t get it, Johnny.” She puts a hand to my chest, and it’s both comforting and irritating. “You have all the power now. You know all my secrets. I’m here, in this crazy situation, for you.”

  And then she kisses me.

  Becca is making us sandwiches downstairs in the kitchen when her parents get home. Mr. and Mrs. Waters are The Walking Dead. Each evening, they shuffle in. They grunt and groan, occasionally throwing in a one-syllable word.

  I think Cass has it wrong. I think Becca’s parents want to send her away because they can’t be bothered to take care of themselves, let alone their messed-up daughter. I think she’s become a painful, living reminder of all they’ve lost.

  Mrs. Waters wears an ugly brown cardigan. She has it gathered in the middle, secured with one button. Except it’s in the wrong hole. She works at a bank, and Mr. Waters works at the courthouse. He’s just as unkempt as the missus, with coffee stains that trickle down the length of his shirt.

  I welcome them home. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Waters.”

  “Johnny,” Mr. Waters grunts as he throws the keys in a dish on the table.

  Mrs. Waters brushes past me to pat Becca on the head. Her hand strokes, bats, and misses, like a blind woman trying to locate her seeing eye dog.

  Pat.

  Pat.

  Her pinkie finger pokes Becca in the eye.

  Becca doesn’t acknowledge her parents.

  “Come on, Johnny,” she says. “Eat up. We need to get going.”

  We move out to the front stoop and stuff our mouths with PB and Js. I eat two to Becca’s one. We need our strength; there’s another long night ahead.

  The Elements of a Crime:

  The Burden of Proof and

  Presumption of Innocence

  The burden of proof and the presumption of innocence are truly the foundation of criminal law. It is the most basic rule: the accused is presumed innocent until proven guilty. Music to the ears of criminals around the world. Can I get an Amen?

  Just as important: the burden of proof lies with the prosecution. And one of the key elements in criminal liability is that the crime must be proven beyond reasonable doubt.

  For lesser crimes (like robbery, for example), the elements of action and intention might be enough to win a case. But for the more serious crimes (like homicide), all elements of criminal liability must be proven.

  In these crimes, one legal requirement is the rule of corpus delicti, which actually means “body of the crime.” It means that to convict someone of murder, there must be a body.

  This is where I should’ve been more careful.

  28

  Becca

  At the party, Johnny introduced me to his sister, Cassie—an alternative girl who Brit would’ve called an unfortunate waste of good genes. Brit hated odd-colored hair, and ink, and piercings. Yes, she favored pretty and pastels. My poor simple sister thought she was Country Club material. Truth was, we were all trash, and only a few of us were going to get out. My sister wouldn’t be one of them, and I could predict Johnny’s sister wouldn’t make it either.

  But that didn’t mean she wasn’t valuable. She was. And I worked her from that very first moment. She took me in immediately. It was strange—the weaker I appeared, the stronger, and more protective, her feelings grew. She treated me like a fragile bird that could break at any moment. She assumed I was innocent; assumed I was good for her brother.

  “You’ve helped bring him back to life,” she told me once. She was so loyal to him. Just as he was to her. It hurt to be around them, because it reminded me what I never had with my sister.

  I endured it because I needed Cass. She was useful and she’d help keep Johnny in line. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe I could control him on my own. Not with what was coming.

  29

  Johnny

  Let’s go.” Becca makes her way to the car. I’m two steps behind her.

  “Got the gun?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, holding up my backpack, which I dug out of the trash at last bell. In addition to the gun, my bag is full of new supplies—including the bullets. I walked over to the gas station during lunch to meet the other Johnny and get the ammo, and also picked up some more food and water. Going to the station is something I do often—I always need something to eat and a power drink during baseball and in the workout season—so nothing looked suspicious. I’ve been taught well.

  Becca slides into the driver’s seat, but I catch the door before she closes it.

  “Let me put this in the trunk,” I say before reaching past her to pop the lever.

  I hear her loud exhale as I head to the back of the car. The very next moment, she’s at my side. It’s unnerving.

  Once I lift the hood to the trunk—and get a look at what’s inside—I know why.

  My brain goes haywire as I try to think of the word.

  The word that matches what I see lying in the back of the trunk.

  I try to grab on to it, but I can’t.

  It’s too slippery.

  30

  Becca

  After the Rendezvous in the Relics, I heard from Travis more regularly. But he was smart. He always made sure to cover his tracks. Still, I knew it was him—the calls, the notes, the way he watched me. He was angry and he was fixating again.

  Just like he did with Brit.

  “Why does she hate me so much?” he used to ask me, over and over again. “Why can she just leave us alone?”

  He started keeping tabs on her—her friends and the guys she dated. And he’d dig up dirt on them, to prove that the people she associated with were no better than he was.

  Brit became the topic of choice.

  “Did you know Brit got a D in Chemistry? I heard she was smoking, drinking, messing around … ” He’d fire out these accusations whenever we were together.

  Travis was completely obsessed with her.

  I felt those same eyes, and that same scrutiny, coming down on me as the months passed. I had to work fast. Thankfully, that party in the ruins gave me an idea.

  Soon, I became just as consumed, developing a laser focus as my plan started to take shape.

  Little by little, I brought Johnny in. I told him about Brit. About Travis’s threats. About Brit being at Travis’s before the accident.

  Johnny grew more and more irate with each new revelation. Though I never told him it was really me who’d dated Travis. No, no, no. That would’ve messed up everything. I needed to play to his emotions. Play the part of the innocent. The victim.

  I told Johnny it was Brit who planned to break up with Travis—I didn’t think he’d trust me otherwise. I had to protect myself and keep Johnny close. I knew just how to do that—after all, I’d learned from the best. And as much as it pained me to use and manipulate people like Travis did, I had to. It was the only way it was going to work.

  Welcome to
Hush

  Responsible:

  Why are some murders described as grisly and heinous? Is there really such a thing as a nice murder?

  Aren’t they all grisly and heinous?

  In my case, I’d say the scene was most definitely heinous. The death was simply necessary. Some might even say it was deserved. I know one person who would say that.

  The second victim, though? Well, that was just unfortunate.

  31

  Johnny

  Do you believe in God?” I asked Becca one night after we’d messed around in her bedroom. She was always talkative after, and it was the only time I had access to the unsolvable puzzle that was her mind.

  “God?” she asked, straightening her bed.

  “Yeah,” I said, zipping my pants. “The Big Guy Upstairs. The Higher Power. Father Almighty. You know, God.”

  “Noooo,” she sang, like it was a trick question or something. “Nor does any respectable scholar.”

  “You don’t ever feel anything from Brit?” I asked. “A feeling or a sign?

  “Are you for real? You don’t have an Ouija board in that backpack, do you?”

  “Hey, I’m being serious here. You get to blather on to me day in and day out about literature and science and math—”

  “Which I’m doing to help you get a proper college scholarship,” she interrupted.

  “Yes, and which I’m totally grateful for—especially when you wear these sexy glasses.” I snatched them off her face. She held out her palm—no fun.

  “I just mean, we talk about things all day, but sometimes I feel like I don’t really know you.”

  “So, you go right for the Big Guy?” She smiled then. “That’s pretty deep.”

  “Yeah, it’s just, sometimes, I don’t know. I think I feel my mom, and I was wondering if you ever feel Brit.”

  “Oh that?” Becca pursed her lips like she did when she was ready to go into full-on lecture mode. “Yes, I do feel Brit, and I believe you feel your mom. But it’s not really them. It’s their energy. That kind of thing has been documented.”

  “Do you always have to be such know-it-all, Waters?” I asked.

  “No.” She smiled. “Not always. This shirt is Brit’s, actually. I feel her energy when I wear it.”

  God, where did that girl go? I miss her so much.

  Ever since we started this stupid plan, I’ve seen less and less of the person I thought I knew. The only thing we’ve talked about for months is Travis Kent. The only thing I see in her eyes now is pain and anger.

  It scares the shit out of me.

  32

  Becca, The Anniversary

  Revenge had become my religion.

  It was really—finally—happening. Johnny was on edge, but I was excited and ready to go. I couldn’t wait. I felt alive for the first time since, well, the last time. The last plan I’d had with Travis, to get Brit off our backs.

  “Brit is coming to see you tomorrow,” I’d told him when we snuck off to our favorite dark corridor in the school basement the day before the accident.

  “Let me guess—another lecture about how you’re so fragile and why I have to stop seeing you?” He’d sounded bored, but his fingers kept busy finding their way under my shirt.

  I knew Brit said things like that about me, but to actually hear it made my blood boil. It also made me feel justified in what I was about to do.

  “No,” I told him, melting into his touch. Brit was out of her mind; Travis Kent was very, very good for me. “She’s coming as me.”

  “Explain.” He removed his hands and met my eyes.

  I had his attention.

  “She discovered that we’re still together and she made a few threats.”

  “And?” he asked, gritting his teeth in that way of his.

  “She told me to break up with you, but I refused.”

  “I’d hope so.” He chuckled.

  “Then she said that if I didn’t break up with you, she would. It’s that or she tells my parents. So she’s coming to see you—pretending to be me—to end it once and for all.”

  “Is she now?” Travis took my hand and pulled me to him. “Well, what do you say we end this little routine once and for all?”

  I answered with a kiss, thinking we had it under control.

  That was my ultimate mistake. I underestimated him.

  I should’ve taken his threat seriously, but that was back when I was using my heart rather than my head. I believed he was just going to scare her. Play some kind of trick or mind game. He was good at that sort of thing.

  That’s what I wanted to believe. If I’d been using my brain, I would’ve seen the signs. I could’ve predicted the outcome. But all I could think about at the time was how nice it’d be to watch her squirm for a change.

  Stupid.

  People can really mess up some of the best-laid plans. The human factor is the most difficult challenge to overcome, because people are unpredictable.

  You can have everything mapped out down to the most minute detail, and someone will do something completely unexpected. That’s why I prefer to spend my time working with numbers rather than working with people. You always know what you can expect with numbers.

  With Travis, I knew he was volatile, unpredictable, dangerous. I also knew Brit wouldn’t back off even if he threatened her. Still, I wouldn’t give him up. See? Completely out of character for someone like me.

  So I’d gone ahead and told him her plan. I set her up. Of course, I did it to gain back some control. To get Brit off my case and to get my own identity back. I couldn’t handle being under her thumb for one moment longer.

  What didn’t I expect? For Travis to become so deranged that he’d smack Brit around, chase her off his property, and follow her in his truck, eventually running her off the road.

  Unpredictability in all its glory.

  Travis wasn’t even sorry about Brit. He never once showed remorse or uttered any type of apology. He never mentioned it. Out of sight, out of mind. I hated him for that. But I hated myself more.

  Now my sister was dead.

  For that short time with Travis, I was distracted, and I ended up paying the ultimate price. Now all I could feel was the empty space that Brit had once filled. I still ached for my life before the accident, when there wasn’t the enormous imbalance. But that ache also fueled me, and I let the fire rage. And that’s when I knew that his confession wouldn’t be enough. I wanted more, and I knew how we could make Travis pay.

  Take the only person he ever really cared about and even the score.

  Travis had no mother figure in his life, which explained a lot. What he did have was a distant father and several bitchy ex-girlfriends. That was his life. But there was one person who mattered. Someone he cared for a great deal. His brother.

  33

  Johnny

  Ah, ah, ah.” The sound rattles in my brain, though I could also be talking aloud. I’m not sure. Everything is swimmy. Underwaterish. Foggy.

  I shake my head, but the image doesn’t go away. I want to be done with all of this right now. I want to run, but it feels like my legs are buried in the ground; I can’t move them.

  Turning to Becca, I see her mouth moving. I don’t register anything she says until somehow, I’m able to pull the plug in my head and the water slowly goes down the drain. Things begin to clear and I can hear Becca’s voice.

  “Wait,” she says.

  I ignore her command, though, because I found the word.

  The word that matches what I see.

  There, in Becca’s trunk, is a tool. A large, flat spade. A shovel.

  A shovel that wasn’t there yesterday.

  It’s resting on another piece of plastic—the same kind we used for Ethan—and it’s covered in clumps of black dirt.

  It may as
well be a body.

  34

  Becca

  I gathered everything I would need for the night. Plus a few extras to keep Johnny under control. He wasn’t going to be happy with the way things were about to go down. But if he didn’t play nice, I had the drugs.

  And if it came down to it, I could always use Cass.

  I wouldn’t like it, but I’d do it.

  Last time I made mistakes, I let my feelings for Travis get in the way. This time I would think with my head. To hell with my heart.

  This time, things would end on my terms.

  35

  Johnny

  The clumps of dirt on the tip of the spade tell me the tool has been used recently. The duct tape around the middle tells me it came from our garage.

  I broke the handle when I was digging up part of our yard for Mom’s garden. It was the spring before the accident, and the ground was still cold and hard. I taped it up so I wouldn’t get a splinter. The garden was our Mother’s Day gift to Mom. I did the heavy labor and Cass bought all the seeds and starter plants. She also worked on the design.

  When we were done, we took Mom out with a blindfold on, making a big production out of our gift. When she took it off and saw the tilled dirt and seedlings and rows of markers of her favorite vegetables, she cried.

  It was a good day.

  That summer we had peppers and tomatoes and onions. Our entire neighborhood was stocked in homemade salsa. Mom would be out there for hours in a funny-looking floppy hat—pruning, watering, and talking to her plants.

  It hurts to think about her.

  And now our shovel is tainted and my memory is dirty. I hate Becca for that. But I guess it all makes absolutely perfect sense.

  Why would Becca use her own shovel to bury a body?

  Why risk it, when her idiot boyfriend could just as easily take the fall?

  I can see it in police evidence now. Sprinkled in white powder so they can gather the fingerprints. My fingerprints. Who else would they belong to?