Page 99 of Finding Home

Oh, fuck no.Gunfire splits the quiet night, and Ralph immediately drops like a stone into a clump of bushes behind him. My heart hammering, I whisper, “Keep my daughter’s name out of your goddamned fucking mouth.”

As the gunshot echoes, I realize what I’ve just done, andmy breathing turns shallow and erratic. My heart stampeding in my chest, I shuffle through the brush toward Ralph’s unmoving body, barely able to breath, and when I reach my destination, it’s clear as can be Ralph Beaumont is no longer among the living. The man’s “taking an eternal dirt nap,” as my grandfather used to say. In fact, Ralph’s forehead would make a mighty fine pencil holder.

I’m shocked to discover I got the fucker right between his reptilian eyes, exactly as I was aiming to do. I’ve never been a great shot. Not terrible, but not a sure thing. Plus, I haven’t been out shooting in forever, so it’s honestly a miracle I got off a perfect shot when I needed it most. Shit. Maybe that’s not such a good thing for a claim of self-defense?

As I’m having the thought, a light flickers on in my peripheral vision. I jerk my head toward the source of the illumination, my eyes as big as saucers. It’s coming from my closest neighbor’s house. Obviously, the gunshot woke somebody up over there.Fuck.If I don’t alter this scene to fit a better narrative than what actually happened, I’ll be fucked.

Covering my hand with my sweatshirt sleeve, I slowly pull Ralph’s gun from his belt and carefully lay it into his lifeless, opened palm. When that task is done, I unzip Ralph’s duffel bag with my covered hand and peek inside.Jesus. It’s stuffed with some spine-chilling, serial-killer shit: duct tape, rope, a hunting knife, and a box of bullets.

“Holy shit, what happened?” a male voice calls out. It’s my neighbor, an older guy in a bathrobe with a rifle in his hand.

Before I’ve replied to him, Aubrey suddenly appears at the back door, wide-eyed and frantic, asking what’s going on.

With my heart lodged in my throat, I look back and forth between Aubrey’s terrified face and my next-door neighbor’s smug one and realize I’ve got no choice but to lie to Aubrey in this moment. At least, for now, while this neighbor is in our presence, I’ve got to tell the same story I’m going to tell the police.

“I-I heard a noise while I was in bed. I had insomnia,” I choke out. “So I-I got my gun and came outside and found this guy, dressed in black, trying to break into my back window with a fucking crowbar.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” the neighbor murmurs, punctuated by a whistle.

I look at Aubrey. She’s sheet-white and gripping a vertical wooden beam on the back porch to keep herself steady.

“Well, he’s worm food now,” my neighbor says, nudging the dead body with his boot. “You hit him, square on his forehead, C-Bomb.Damn.”

I take a deep breath. “I shouted at him to freeze and put his hands up, but he pointed a handgun at me, instead.”

The neighbor shrugs. “Classic kill-or-be-killed situation. Don’t feel bad about it for a second, son. You did exactly the right thing.”

I look at Aubrey again. She’s holding her stomach. From where she’s standing, Ralph’s body is too far away for her to identify his face, surely, especially given the darkness of the night and the way Ralph landed when he fell back. But her body language suggests, pretty damned clearly, she’s got a strong hunch about the identity of the body.

“Is he . . .?” Aubrey begins.

“Dead?” the neighbor supplies, unaware what she’s actually asking me. “Yes, darlin’,” he continues reassuringly. “Don’t you worry, that bad man can’t hurt you or anyone else, ever again.”

As the neighbor bends down to check out the duffel bag, Aubrey mouths to me:Ralph?

I nod slowly, and her entire body visibly shudders.

“My god,” the neighbor says, his attention fixed on Ralph’s duffel bag. “Looks like this mofo planned to do something pretty horrific.” He identifies the full contents of the bag—all the shit I’ve already seen for myself—and poor Aubrey bursts into tears, even before he finishes his list.

Thanks, asshole.If I’d wanted Aubrey to know about all that serial-killer shit, I’d have told her myself.

As Aubrey shudders and cries on the porch, I beeline over to her and hold her close. “It’s okay, baby. We’re safe now.” I don’t want to hurry her along, when she’s sobbing like this; but I also know I’ve got to call the police and play my part, in order to secure my freedom and my future with my family. “Baby, go inside and check on Raine, okay? I need to call the police and report what happened. Go on now, baby. The gunshot might have woken Raine up. She might be awake and scared.”

I’ve said the magic words.Raineandscared. Instantly, Aubrey flips into parenting mode. Enough, anyway, to drag herself across the porch and into the back doorframe. In the doorway, though, she stops and turns around.

“Make sure you tell the police about how he pointed a gun at you, Caleb.”

“I will, baby. Go on.”

“Tell them you had no choice. Tell them what’s in the duffel bag.”

“I will. It’s gonna be okay.”

“The judge said you can’t get into any more trouble. She said if you do anything violent?—"

“It was self-defense,” I reassure her. “Plain and simple.”

“Classic case of it,’” the neighbor agrees. “Nobody’s gonna blame C-Bomb for a minute, darlin’. In fact, all anyone’s gonna do is pat him on the back and tell him ‘good job.’”

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