There Was a Little Girl Read online

  There I stand in the clothing section, not really sure what I’m doing. My reasoning that I can take everything back has me throwing stuff in my cart. Leggings and hoodies on clearance. Black and gray t-shirts. Cheap undergarments, socks and sneakers. When I was little I joined the Girl Scouts and decided after the first couple of meetings it wasn’t for me. I hated everyone asking why my grandparents picked me up. How sorry they all looked when I said my parents died in a car crash. The pity in their eyes from that day forward. Most of my free time I spent in the library buried in a book that would never judge me.

  The mart also sells ammo, so I purchase another box of bullets, thinking if nothing else, I’ll use them at the range. The cash goes quickly. I’ll have to start keeping more on me. My credit and debit cards are getting dusty.

  One last stop. A big-box home improvement store with self-checkout. There I pick up plastic drop cloths and gloves. As I pick up a huge box of trash bags, a clerk eyes my cart.

  “Doing some painting?”

  “My entire place. I hate white walls. Can you believe I bought the paint and brushes but forgot this?”

  “You don’t want paint on the carpet. Looks like you’ve got enough to paint a couple houses.”

  Typical of the South, the guy doesn’t really care what I’m painting; he’s simply making conversation.

  “Figured I can always bring back what I don’t need.”

  My purchases go into the back of my Jeep Grand Cherokee along with everything else. I have the equipment. The question was, do I have the guts?

  CHAPTER 12

  GRAYSON COULDN’T BELIEVE FRED WAS lying in the hospital recovering from gunshot wounds. Shot on the job. If he’d been armed, would it have made a difference? None of the officers were issued guns. This was the reason he wanted to carry. Not for protection from animals, but for protection from people. Fred was lucky; he’d survive thanks to bad aim. Police caught the guy a few blocks away when his pants fell down and he tripped in front of a patrol car, of all things.

  While Fred recuperated, Grayson and the three other animal control officers split up his work. Today, he was in court. It was going to be a long day. While he waited, he read through an article from Fayetteville. After several years on the job, he’d gotten to know other officers around the state. This was Marla’s case. She loved horses, and this one had her crying in her truck when it happened.

  Animal control officers removed four starving horses after the owner agreed to surrender the animals in order to avoid prosecution. The horses’ hooves were curling and cracked, their bones showing through their hides. Three of the animals will be nursed back to health, then sent to foster on a farm. The fourth horse had to be euthanized, as it was in such poor condition.

  The officer had done everything right. Gotten a warrant. In the end, the owner ended up surrendering the animals. The owner had intentionally deprived the animals of necessary sustenance. The horses were taken over to the vet school at NC State University. Grayson remembered the case. He’d been at the vet school when the horses came in. The vet had shaken his head when he told them the news. Three of the animals could be saved. But the fourth, the horse’s bones protruded through all four feet. Even if they could have done surgery to fix the injuries, the animal would no longer be able to bear his own weight. The only humane thing to do was to put him down.

  And worst of all? The owner could’ve prevented it all. Walt Cunningham wasn’t mentally unbalanced, not like some folks. He was simply an ass.

  Animals were considered property under the law. In the law’s eyes, there was no difference between a TV and a dog or cat. Until a case hit home, the judges’ rulings wouldn’t change. The man’s lawyer argued he fed the horses. Did what he could to care for the animals. Reasonable doubt was shown. So the guy received probation. These were the cases he hated. As Grayson drove home that night, he indulged in a momentary fantasy of what it would be like for the man to experience firsthand what he’d done to his horses.

  Where I work we’re allotted fifteen days a year to use for personal days, sick leave, and appointments. This is my first job. The company hired me two years ago, straight out of college. Today is a personal day. It’s a day I require for myself—Friday the thirteenth.

  Jackson had to go out of town for a long weekend. To their beach house in South Carolina on the Isle of Palms. His mother is opening it up for the season and wanted him to come down and give his opinion on the new furniture she picked out. Every couple years she redecorates their three homes. To me it seems like there’s always a home in progress. The woman has so much excess energy, sometimes I wonder if she’s abusing ADHD meds.

  For the past two weeks I’ve been doodling the same street and house number over and over on papers and receipts. One of the gals I work with likes to say shit or get off the pot. So I decide if I drive by the place then maybe I can push the awful scene into the trapdoor in my head. Anything to close up the wound that has ripped open inside me again.

  GPS is a wonderful invention, right up there with massages and pizza. How did people manage with paper maps? If I read in a moving vehicle for too long, I’ll barf. I’ve always envied those people who can read books or knit during a road trip. Think how productive they are.

  The drive to Wilmington takes longer than usual. People heading off to the beaches for the weekend. It will be this way until late August. The weather on my phone forecasts ninety-two today, so I’m wearing a cute printed pair of Lilly Pulitzer shorts and a pink t-shirt. I got a mani pedi this week one day at lunch, so my toes are shocking pink and my nails a robin’s-egg blue. Spring is my favorite time of year.

  The humidity soaks into my skin. In the South during the heat, I wear as little clothing as possible, and mostly cotton. Open-toed sandals that would never fly at an office in D.C. are perfectly acceptable here. As are bare arms. Thank goodness, otherwise I’d melt. The weather is one of the reasons I took the job. I had offers in Chicago, D.C., and New Jersey, but after spending a little time over a sultry summer in North Carolina as an intern, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. The mountains and beach are only a few hours away from Raleigh, perfect for weekend getaways.

  Jackson made breakfast this morning. Crepes with fresh strawberries and cream. We like to hit the State Farmers’ Market most weekends. Nothing like fresh produce. And I admit, I sneak out of work for an early lunch whenever they have events like tomato day. With free tomato sandwiches. Yum.

  When I told him I was going to Duplin Winery with Lisa, he perked up and didn’t feel so guilty leaving me alone for the weekend. He wouldn’t admit it to his parents, they’re total wine snobs, but he loves the muscadine wine they make. You can buy it in most of the grocery stores around, but it’s fun going to the winery. They have tastings and the cafe serves delicious food. During the summer a band plays outside on the weekends. Of course, I’m going with Lisa. You’d think we were besties as much as I invoke her name.

  Good thing I keep she and Jackson apart or he’ll find out how much I lie. Whenever I want alone time, I say I’m getting together with her. And since, according to me, she’s always dealing with a breakup, she doesn’t want to be around us, the happy couple. But it’s not really lying, more like sparing his feelings—at least that’s what I tell myself when the lies slide off my tongue.

  After the tasting at the winery, I sit outside enjoying a late lunch, letting the sun turn me to flame. When I leave, I make one more stop at the World’s Largest Frying Pan. Located in Rose Hill, it’s completely functional and not far from the winery. It can cook 365 chickens and holds two hundred gallons of cooking oil. They use it at various events. The one I attended, they made a giant pizza. I take a picture of me leaning over the railing and send it to Jackson, telling him Lisa was in the frying pan and I was cooking her for dinner. That’s the thing about lies…the more you tell, the easier they come.

  Around five o’clock, I drive slowly down the street by the house. It doesn’t look like anyone is ho
me yet. I don’t know exactly what I’m hoping to find, only that I need to see the house again. The monster within. A walk along the water will help me get my mind right.

  I have my hair up in a ponytail, my gold Tory Burch sandals sparkling like miniature suns on my feet. It feels good to walk along the water, feel the breeze on my skin. I walk for hours, stopping to grab a bite to eat. Trying to talk myself out of it. For ages, I sit on a bench facing the water and stare out at nothing.

  When I get back in the car, I have to make a decision. Back there or home? I want to go home but I can’t. It’s not right. If I go home, could I look at myself in the mirror? Still sleep at night?

  That awful man beat his wife and killed their dog. And what did he get? Probation. No owning an animal for two years. Where the hell was the justice?

  Children have child services, abused women have battered women’s shelters, unwanted animals…what do they have? Animal control officers and shelters stretched too thin and without the power to punish? Some sad commercials around the holidays to make you cry? Posts on social media you can share to feel better about yourself?

  What is anyone really doing to make these people pay? As far as I can tell, not a damn thing. If there was another way, I wouldn’t find myself sitting in front of the house staring at the windows. Images of a rufescent baseball bat… Terrible memories I thought I’d locked away, so far away in my head I’d never think of them again. Yet here I am.

  CHAPTER 13

  THERE’S NO SIGN OF THE woman through the windows, unless she’s in the back of the house. Only him. The curtains are open, showing him kicked back drinking and watching TV, sprawled out in one of those old recliners. The ones as big as a car and covered in some hideous plaid from the seventies.

  When I bought my used Jeep Grand Cherokee, I didn’t care for the dark tinted windows. Now I’m grateful for the anonymity they provide. So much for spending the day reading or going to a movie. Instead I came up with a plan, packed a bag, then knelt in front of the hope chest at the foot of my bed.

  The wood was cool and smooth under my hands. The quilt lay all the way at the bottom. The fabric even more faded than I remembered. It belonged on my bed. To be used, not hidden away. When I spread out the quilt, there were my daddy’s guns.

  When I went off to college, I left them with Gramps. Told him I’d take them when I found a job. Brought them to North Carolina, but not the case. The wood on top reminds me of another case Daddy kept on his dresser. One he liked to throw. It was enough to take the guns; I didn’t want the additional reminder of the case too. So I wrapped them in the quilt and put the bundle at the bottom of the hope chest and never thought about them again. Until the day I drove to the conference in Wilmington.

  The bright colors of my shorts stand out in the dark interior of the vehicle. I get out, climb in the back seat, open my bags. Put on plastic gloves. Lay down plastic on the front seat and floor. Take off my underwear and change into a scratchy white bra. I skip the undies. Pull on a gray t-shirt, black leggings, and the cheap blue sneakers. Finally I put down plastic in the back. For after.

  The street is quiet. Back in the front seat, I shift to find a comfortable position. The lights in the living room shine through the rain. A crack of thunder makes me jump. It’s almost three a.m.

  As lightning flashes, it illuminates the chain still attached to the tree, lying stretched out like a boa digesting a heavy meal. And the next time lightning lights up the sky, I see the heavy collar with what looks like grass at first. Until I realize it’s bits of fur. Blackness, ravenous and fueled by hatred, rises within me.

  An alley runs behind the house. After driving the length of it, not seeing anyone, I pull the car close to the bushes that make up his backyard. And I sit there. Waiting.

  The darkness urges me onward. Do it. He deserves it.

  The rational normal part of me questions. Are you truly prepared to take a life? It’s no different than going to the shooting range and taking aim at a target. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. Think of that despicable excuse for a human as nothing more than a paper target wearing the skin of a man.

  What if the door is locked? Then what will I do? It’s raining hard, so if the door is locked, I will shoot him through the front window and run like hell. Not the best of plans, but since I don’t have a clue how to pick a lock, it will have to do.

  No more stalling. The houses on either side of his are dark. I make my way through the yard, not bothering to worry about being quiet. The storm will cover up any sound I make. No dog barks, so neither neighbor keeps a dog outside. At first I worry about an alarm, but I don’t see any stickers on the windows, and as I near the back door I look closely and can’t see any sensors. Not that I really thought this loser had an alarm. He can’t even afford a proper door.

  The plastic gloves make my hands sweat. The gun waits inside my messenger bag. I reach out for the doorknob, hesitating. My hand hovering two inches from the knob. Who knows how long the rain will last? It’s not like I can stand out here all night. In a few hours it will be dawn. Time to either go home and forget this insane idea or go all in and do what needs to be done. No hesitation.

  If I hesitate, I’ll never go through with it. I have to fix my intention so when I walk through that door I will make the paper man pay. By now, I’m soaking wet, my ponytail hanging limp against my skull. As I wipe the water out of my eyes, I take a deep breath and turn the knob.

  It’s a sign. The door swings open.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE DOOR OPENS ONTO A small kitchen. It’s dark except for the flickering of the blue light from the TV. My heart hammers in my chest as I stand still, listening. The harsh breathing sounds so loud I think for sure he will come to see what the commotion is. But after what seems like an hour, there is no sign he heard me come in. No voices carry. Where is the woman? Asleep? Working? Dead? I hope she isn’t home. It’s him I am here for, not her.

  The volume on the TV increases, some kind of commercial for used cars. The smell of the plastic gloves sticks in my throat. Every detail stands out: the shaking of the gun as I hold it out in front of me, the cracked linoleum, and the ticking of the beer-can clock on the wall.

  Deep breath in. Slowly let it out. Again. One step forward. Then another and I’m through the doorway, into the family room. The back of the couch is threadbare and worn, looking like something straight out of the seventies. From the reflection in the plate glass window I can see the man stretched out on the couch. Not moving.

  Creeping closer, I stop when the floor squeaks under my foot. Every nerve vibrating, I stand there with one foot up in the air, listening. Staring at the window, willing him not to wake up. The muscle in my thigh screams. The clock in the kitchen ticks and a snort fills the room. A count of thirteen with no sign of movement and I lower my foot, taking another step.

  My gaze lands on the paper man. His eyes are closed and he is snoring. It’s disconcerting how normal he looks. Not the monster I remember. The light from the huge TV illuminates the otherwise dark room well enough for me to see. The flashes of lightning imitate a strobe light, throwing light into the room.

  The guy looks like he hasn’t shaved in several days. Black and gray whiskers covering his cheeks and chin. The salt-and-pepper hair looks greasy. The face I remember from that day is full of anger and hate. Seeing him sleeping, I frown. While he doesn’t look kind, he doesn’t look evil either. Deep lines run across his forehead. There are bags under his eyes, and he has the red nose of a heavy drinker. He is on his side. I can’t tear my gaze away.

  This man is someone I could pass on the street without feeling unsafe. Not the kind of guy I’d cross to the other side to avoid. The worst monsters always look normal.

  I don’t want to do it, but I have to be sure. The short hallway leads me to a tiny bathroom with cracked white tile on the floor. Two other doorways open onto bedrooms. Both beds unmade. One of the rooms has clothing thrown all over the floor. No woman. Whil
e I want to believe she left him, I know growing up with my parents how hard women find it to leave those they thought they loved. Finding it easier to explain away the bruises than to step out into the unknown and start over. Alone.

  The man sleeps on as I creep back to the living room. His mouth is partway open, a bit of drool at the corner dripping down his chin, making a wet spot on the orange and brown nubby plaid.

  The curtains make a soft whoosh as I pull them shut. The storm is letting up. I’m running out of time. The gun vibrates up and down like I placed it on top of the washing machine. My entire body shakes.

  The man grunts and shifts but doesn’t wake. Remembering what the police officer at the range told me, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. By the third time, the trembling slows. A few more deep breaths in and out and the gun is steady in my hand.

  This person is someone’s child. My resolve wavers. The gun dips. Then lighting fills the room and my eye land on something in the corner. The scene unfolds again. The smell of dirt and copper fills my nose. I remember how still the air felt as the dog died. Blackness flows through my veins, my jaw clenching so tight, I think I’ll crack a tooth.

  The law didn’t make him pay for stealing a life. If I don’t act, no one will. A step closer and I smell beer and body odor. A dozen cans litter the coffee table and floor.

  Pulling the trigger is like trying to swim in concrete. The shot explodes, hitting the back of the couch. His eyes fly open, meet mine, widen.

  Adrenaline spiking, I fire again, hitting him in the chest before he can get up. Like a zombie, he stands up, arms stretched out, moving toward me. One more shot, this time to his head, and he goes still.

  Retracing my steps back through the kitchen, I hesitate. Lock the door or leave it as is? If the woman doesn’t have a key and finds it locked, she’ll be suspicious. Hysterical laughter escapes. It won’t matter, as she’ll find him dead once she takes a few more steps. After she gets over the shock, I hope she will find the peace to begin again.