Page 38 of Haven't Killed in Years
She walked toward the wall of pottery and perused the options. “That sounds straightforward.”
I watched her meander around. I could barely recognize her as Cody Abbington’s little sister, but there was something, the ridgebetween her eyes, that proved her identity. Did I have a marker like that, even after all the trouble I went through to alter my appearance?
“Do you want to paint something?” I asked.
She stopped and turned to me. “I can come back when it’s open.”
“It’s fine. No one cares.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, pick whatever you want. I’ll get some paints.”
- - - - -
We sat together atone of the long wooden tables painting coffee mugs. I watched her trace the curve of the handle with yellow paint. She was so focused, so careful. Did she remember I was there?
She dipped the brush into the paint,1-2-3. “I never got to do anything like this when I was younger,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it because I understood it.
“You can ask me questions if you want,” she offered. “Everyone always wants to.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About my family. About Abel Haggerty and the murders.”
“Kind of morbid,” I said.
She shrugged and went back to her mug, using the blue paint to trace small circles. My eyes followed her strokes, putting me into a trance. She had three thin gold rings on her right hand—not ideal for killing. My father always wore his wedding ring on a thin chain around his neck, tucked under his shirt. I supposed it meant she didn’t plan on killing me yet.
“I don’t want it to define me,” she admitted. “What happened to me. But it does. How do you deal so well with what happened to you?”
“What do you mean?” I braced myself. Was it time to go there?
“The fire, losing your parents,” she clarified.
I exhaled. Yes, of course, my very tragic backstory. “Who says I deal with it well?” I watched her eyes come up and meet mine again. They blinked and it was a form of Morse code, communicating something, but I still wasn’t equipped to translate her facial expressions. I wished that I could though.
The sound of the lock turning broke the tension.
We both twisted toward the front door, where Porter stood on the other side. He fumbled with the lock, dirty and disheveled. His sweaty shirt was covered with dark red stains that I knew from looking at him were not corn syrup.
Twenty
I jumped from my seatand ran to Porter as he opened the front entrance to Painting Pots.
He froze in his tracks. “What are you doing here?!”
“What amIdoing here?” I pushed him back out the door so that we wouldn’t be overheard. “What the hell happened to you?”
He scratched at the back of his head, thinking about what to say.
“What?!” I yelled, demanding a response.
“Gwen, I did something…bad.” He looked over my shoulder and noticed Elyse through the window. “What is she doing here?”
“Who cares? Tell me what’s going on. Where have you been?”
