Page 27 of Killer Knows Best

“Please go,” I manage and somehow my voice sounds far steadier than I feel.

She doesn’t argue—and I’m thankful for that. Fallon gives me one last look as if she’s waiting for me to change my mind, but I can’t. I won’t. She heads for the door without another word, and I can hear the soft sound of her boots fading down the hall.

Now, it’s just she and I. Alone with our thoughts and the past swirling around us like a hurricane.

I take a breath and slowly lower my gun, but I’ll admit, there’s a part of me begging to use it. I’ve never had a well-timed misfire, but I’m considering it.

My pulse thuds in my temples like someone has taken a hammer to my skull. She takes a step away from the ratty old couch behind her, and it’s only then I notice the lit cigarette in her hand. Her eyes are lined with crimson, glossy as the day is long, which tells me everything I need to know about how cleanshe might be. And there’s a glint in them as well, like a cat that just got caught with its paw in the fishbowl.

“Hell.” I sigh as I contemplate on what to do next.

She belts out a sharp cackle and the sound claws at me like broken glass across my very last nerve. “Is that any way to greet your mother?”

Yes. My mother.

Her words hang in the air, thick and rancid just like the stench of the fast food that’s been left too long in this rathole of a room. My grip on the gun tightens before I slide it back into its holster.

My heart is still racing, but now it’s from something worse than adrenaline. Anger. It’s the worst kind of anger, because it’s sticking to my soul and festering like wildfire. I’m more than familiar with this brand of anger. I know for a fact it never really goes away, and not even a bullet can take care of.

“What are you doing here?” My words come out harsh. I’m not even trying to hide the edge to it. I don’t need to hide anything from my mother. She knows exactly how I feel about the things both her and my father put us through. We don’t need to go through that pathetic song and dance once again, but it seems the music never stops regardless.

“Nice to see you, too, Jackie.” She takes a drag from her cigarette and flicks the ash onto the filthy carpet as if she runs the place. And I pray that’s not true.

There’s an air of confidence about her, a superiority she’s trying to maintain as if she were standing in some luxury suite instead of a glorified brothel. The scent of stale smoke and sweat now takes on a different meaning, and it’s all I can do not to bury my nose in my sleeve. This hellhole is an ode to bad decisions. And ironically, my mother most likely believes this is a very good and prudent decision. After all, this is how she providedfor her family while her husband was shooting up black tar heroin.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” She waves her hand around like she’s presenting some kind of prize. “I’m surviving.”

Another surge of anger coils in me. “Surviving? In a place like this?” I gesture to the peeling wallpaper and the cracked windows. “You’re not surviving. You’re?—”

“I’m what, Jack?” She leans forward, her grin sharp and her eyes a little too glassy. “Go ahead. Say it. You always were the judgmental one. You’re the only one that’s any good in this world and the rest of us are garbage. You’ve always been ashamed of our family.”

“Give me something not to be ashamed of,” I riot back. “Change my mind.” My voice drops to something colder. “You’re turning tricks again. It’s not even a question. I know the answers to all of the questions when it comes to you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she hisses, flicking the cigarette butt across the room and it lands with a soft hiss on an old takeout carton. “I got out of prison a month ago. Haven’t had time to catch up with my darling boy. You don’t know the new me.”

“Bull.” I take a step toward her. “The new you is a perfect representation of the old you. And a month is plenty of time to reach out. The prison kept my number for you. You could have called me. You didn’t. You didn’t want to. This”—I wave a hand around at the dump—“this is what you wanted.”

She doesn’t answer. She simply smirks as if I’m a little kid throwing a tantrum that she doesn’t have the patience for. Her eyes flick over my body and size me up.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” She blows out an aggressive breath at the thought. “You’re always jumping to conclusions. Maybe I’m just living my life here. Did you ever think of that?”

“No.” I somehow manage the word without laughing. “You’reusing again. That’s the only conclusion I can draw.” I shake my head with disgust. “You’re sick. You always have been. And if you keep this up, you always will be. So what is it this time? Coke? Meth? Who knows what you’ve gotten your hands on.”

She grins and folds her arms across her chest like we’re having a friendly chat. “Jet and Candy still hanging around? I bet they miss their mama, and their mama sure misses them, too.”

I flinch at the mention of my siblings. My mother has always been poison to them. They may not agree with my assessment, but that is certainly the case whether they want to argue it or not.

“Jet is still kicking, I take it? And Candy—sweet, sweet Candy—how is my baby girl? It’s been a few years. I know a lot can change even in a little bit of time.”

A heavy sigh escapes me. I can feel my defenses starting to crumble. They always do.

“Candence is doing her best to rebuild her life. It’s been a while since I spoke to her last. I’m giving her some breathing room. I suggest you do the same.”

My mother should breathe in an entirely different galaxy than my sister or my brother, and count me in on that equation, too. It’s for our own safety even at this age.

Her eyebrows lift in mock surprise. “Really? Candy is doing better? You don’t say. She got herself a job? A real one?”

“She’s working the front desk at a hotel north of Denver,” I say, regretting every single word. The last thing I should be doing is giving my mother the ammo she needs to go off half-cocked and knocking my sister’s world down like dominos. It’s what she does best. “She has roommates. An on-again, off-again boyfriend that I’m not crazy about.” But then, I’ve never been able to deny my mother a single thing.

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