Page 47 of One Kill

When I first realized I was pregnant, my greatest fear was disappointing my parents. As an only child, all of their hopes and dreams were placed on me. Work hard, get good grades, go to college, get a good paycheck, then create a family.

That was the plan.

With my grades, I could follow Murphy to whatever college he was planning on attending—anywhere except the five boroughs since both of our parents had forbidden it. We knew it had something to do with the Irish and Italians not being able to stand in the same room without punches and insults being thrown at any given time. The words mafia and mob were never used in our presence but Murphy and I weren’t stupid. Some of the guys hanging out with them looked like caricatures of those old Godfather movies.

We had set our sights on the University of Connecticut because it wasn’t too far from our parents but far enough to keep our privacy. Plus, raising a family there seemed picture perfect and he and I deserve nothing less than that.

Obviously, the shock of the news was palpable. My father’s face turned a bright red as he stared daggers at Murphy sitting next to me, his fingers wrapped around my trembling hand, and I remember thinking Daddy’s cheeks matched his Red Sox jersey. My mother stayed silent for all of two minutes before she announced, “Well. God is clearly testing our love and faith and we Irish never back down from a challenge, now, do we?” And that was that.

My mom rose from her chair, came to my side, and placed a warm kiss on the top of my head as her hand tapped my still-flat belly twice.

It wouldn’t be easy every day, but we would get through it because we had a support system. And I had Murphy.

I doubted his parents would react in the same way but, together, we could do anything.

As I walk up to my parents’ room, I call out a quick, “Wake me up when Dad gets home, please,” over my shoulder and smile when she sing-songs that she promises. My mom is quirky, not a negative bone in her body, and her faith in God and family is unshakeable.

And so was mine… until it wasn’t.

I’m startled awake by a contraction but something, a bone-deep feeling I cannot explain, tells me to be quiet. It’s in the air, the way the house feels as I open my eyes and focus on where I am and what is happening.

That’s when I hear my mother’s shrill voice screaming that she doesn’t know.

“I don’t know, I swear. I have no idea what you’re looking for.”

My goal is to sit up quickly but my belly won’t allow it. Rolling to my side before sitting up on the edge of the bed, I quietly rise to my feet so I can check on my mom.

That’s when I hear the boom of my father’s voice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing in my house?” His words are immediately followed by the same crashing sound as when the plates fell to the floor with my contraction earlier. My mother screams again and a voice I don’t recognize bellows throughout the house.

“Where’s the fucking money?”

My eyes dart to the closet, knowing there’s a hidden space behind my mother’s clothes big enough for me to crawl into, even though the bag full of money is stashed in there.

My hands land on my stomach and, in that moment, I do what Murphy would want me to do. I protect our baby.

As quietly as I can, I crawl to the closet, gritting my teeth as another contraction spears through my nervous system, the weight of the baby in this position making things doubly uncomfortable. But I can’t think about my pain right now. The only thing that matters is my baby’s safety. The pounding feet on the stairs, accompanied by my mother’s wails and my father’s hurling insults make me pause only a half a second before I push through all of my fears and unlock the small door hidden by coats and dresses. If I hadn’t found this place when I was younger, playing with my mother’s shoes, I never would have guessed there was anything here. The tiny door is invisible; only by touching can you feel the imperfections.

Just as the bedroom door slams open, I hear the click of my safe space. Sitting back, I breathe through the pain of the contraction, my back against the wall, my legs spread as far as I can get them, which isn’t much.

Outside, in the bedroom, the sounds of a struggle, the cries, and the threats, are clear as day. This cubby is safe but it’s definitely not soundproof.

“Where’s the fucking money? Before I not only kill your bitch but rape her first.”

My mother spits insults at him, telling him that God will make him burn in the depths of Hell for his sins, but the cracking sound that follows tells me she’s just been silenced by his hand—or his fist.

“Don’t you fucking tou—“ My father’s voice stops abruptly as a deafening sound replaces it. I gasp into my hand because Iknowthat sound. I’ve caused that exact sound before with my dad and Murphy—at a firing range.

Seconds pass with nothing but silence and that scares me more than anything, because if my dad’s booming voice is gone then that means… oh God.

“Now, tell me where the money is and you can live to raise your whore of a daughter’s baby. If you don’t, I’ll fuck your pretty little cunt then I’ll find your little girl and fuck her pregnant cunt too while I make you watch.” Fear makes my contractions triple in intensity but I don’t dare make a sound, biting my tongue enough to fill my mouth with my own blood.

“She’s not here, you unholy Neanderthal. Do what you will but I can’t tell you what I don’t know.” In that moment, I wonder if she’s telling the truth because, if I know about the money, I can’t imagine she doesn’t. Is this money more valuable than her dignity? Her life?

My life?

Then it hits me.

She must have guessed I’m in here so giving the money’s location would be giving mine and knowing my mother… yeah, my life is more important than hers.

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