Page 77 of All Good People Here

Dave heaved a sigh. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s time.” He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, he turned to Billy. “Did you ever notice how Krissy pushed me away after the twins were born? Did you ever stop to think about why?” He looked to Billy for a reaction, but Billy stayed quiet. “The twins,” Dave said. “Have you ever noticed how the twins look like me?”

—

Five minutes later, Billy wordlessly got out of Dave’s car and slammed the door behind him. He didn’t move as the sound of tires on gravel faded then disappeared. He stood in front of his home, staring up at the dark window of the bedroom where, for seven years, he’d slept next to Krissy—his lying, cheating wife. Rage radiated through his body.

He thought back to that night so long ago now, when he’d gotten down on one knee and held out his grandmother’s ring. He’d been so full of hope then, a soon-to-be father and the future husband of Krissy fucking Winter. But now he understood that her acceptance of his proposal was a lie. He’d thought she loved him, but in reality, she’d been sleeping with his best friend. He’d thought she loved him, but she’d only ever used him.

Billy walked slowly up the porch steps and through the front door, his hands flexing by his sides. Inside, he gazed around at the dark and quiet house, at the hallway lined with family photos, all of which were lies. Their entire home was a lie, their entire life. All because of her—that bitch, slut, whore.

Billy made his way into the kitchen, then froze. He’d heard something. Footsteps, soft and distant. He looked around, his gaze snagging on the basement door. It was open, swung out into the kitchen, which was odd. They never kept the basement door open. Then he heard it again: footsteps coming from deep within the house followed by the high-pitched creak of the dryer door. A fresh wave of fury erupted through him. Krissy. Apparently, his whore wife wasn’t asleep after all, and a sudden fantasy began to swirl in Billy’s mind.

What if Krissy took a tumble down the basement stairs? What if she cracked her head open against the cold concrete floor? What if she bled out down there, moaning in pain, but with no one to hear her because he and the kids were sound asleep two flights up? She was probably so doped up on her sleeping pills and wine that no one would second-guess her misplacing a step in the dark.

He closed his eyes, basking in the fantasy. All he’d have to do was slide up against the kitchen wall, hide behind the open basement door, wait for her to walk up the stairs, and then slam the door into her face. And Billy would be able to listen to her body cartwheel down the steps, would be able to crouch over her as shedied and watch the look in her eyes as she realized what he’d done and why.You shouldn’t have lied to me,he’d say.You shouldn’t have used me. You shouldn’t have been such a whore.

In the dark of the kitchen, Billy shook the image from his mind. He couldn’t do that. It was absurd. And really, did he actually want Krissy to die? Or did he just want to teach her a lesson, to scare her? Once she was good and afraid, he thought, she’d never cheat on him again. Maybe she’d even stop bitching about their life. Maybe she’d actually be grateful to him—for their life, their house, their money she used to buy all her clothes and pills and wine. Maybe she’d actually put a little effort into cooking dinner, or wear some makeup, or kiss him on the lips when he came home at night.

Billy heard another creak of the dryer door, and then, without quite telling his legs to do it, he was walking quietly across the floor and slipping into the space between the wall and the open basement door. He listened as his wife’s footsteps began to ascend the stairs. And then, she was there, at the top, stepping onto the landing.

Billy held an image of Krissy in his mind—she was sorry, she was begging forgiveness, she was promising to be a better wife—and he wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and swung it hard. There was a loudthunk,like a hammer against wood, as the door collided with her. He heard her tumble down the stairs, landing with acrackat the bottom. The silence afterward was deafening.

Billy stood in the darkness, his hand still on the doorknob, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe he’d done it. Panic began to bubble in his stomach. He opened the door and stepped gingerly around it. But something was wrong. The body at the bottom of the stairs was too small. He blinked down at it, his brain working in slow motion. Krissy didn’t wear that nightgown. Her hair wasn’t thatlight. When he finally understood, he contracted. His stomach lurched. It was January. It was his baby girl.

“No.”

Panic blurred his vision as he made his way down the stairs to her. He tried to move fast but he felt as if he were underwater, the air around him viscous. January’s body looked all wrong—her limbs bent at sharp angles, her face slack. He reached out a hand and softly touched her cheek.

“January?” His voice was tentative.

She didn’t move.

“January?”

Still nothing.

“No,” he breathed, clapping a hand over his mouth. Bile rose in his throat. “No, no, no.”

Shaking, he reached down and scooped her body into his arms, cradling her like a baby. “January, wake up. I’m sorry. Daddy made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

But her body remained limp, her face expressionless. If it weren’t for the extreme angle of her neck, she could have been sleeping. “January.” Now his voice was a harsh command. “Wake up!” His arms tightened around her, shaking her body, trying to get her to open her eyes.

And then, he saw it—the flutter of her eyelids. His heart soared in his chest. He let out a sob. She was alive. She was alive, she was alive, she was alive. In his arms, his daughter let out a little moan, turning her head slightly in his arms.

“Good girl,” Billy said, his voice trembling. “Good girl.”

He shot a look up the basement stairs. He needed to get to the phone in the kitchen to call an ambulance, but he didn’t know if he should move her body. Would that make it worse? He looked into January’s face. By now, she’d blinked her eyes open and was gazing up at him, looking confused. “D-Daddy?”

“Shh, baby. Don’t talk. I’m gonna leave you here for one second, okay? You’re gonna be okay. I’m gonna get you help.” Moving more carefully than he ever had, Billy placed her body down, straightening out her arms and legs.

He stood to leave, but then, just as he was turning to race up the stairs, January’s little voice said, “You hurt me, Daddy.”

Billy froze. An iciness flowed from his head through his body. She knew. She knew what he’d done. He stood, unmoving, for a long time, and then, finally, he turned and knelt down.

“No, no, January. I didn’t,” he said slowly. “Don’t say that.”

January started to whimper, looking scared. “You did.”

“Ididn’t. So don’t say that.”

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