Page 73 of Haven't Killed in Years
Natalie moved closer to the kitchen island. Wesley’s hands and forearms matched his legs—the right one draped over the left—two useless limbs that had done nothing to break his fall. She stepped farther into the kitchen and around the island until her view was no longer obstructed. There was no blood, and within three stressful seconds, she could tell he was breathing.
She knew she should leave. She did what she had come for. Her conscience could be clean, but instead, she dropped down to one knee beside him. She reached out toward his shoulder and paused, her hand not quite making contact, not yet.
It felt strange to be so close. She could see his stubble. She leaned forward and let her fingers meet his cheek.
A moan broke the silence as if she had set off an alarm on his body. Natalie jumped back and fell onto her ass. Wesley began to stir and she crab-walked away from him and around the corner of the kitchen island as he rolled onto his back. She leaned against the island, pulling her knees up to her throat and hoping he hadn’t seen or heard her. She buried her face in her knees and let her nerves take her elsewhere.
She thought of all the times she had almost been caught byGwen. Years ago, when Natalie was too eager and unaware she was even someone to be perceived—when she worried she had parked too close or walked by the window too many times. When she would sprint home and hide in her bed and pray she would never see the look of disappointment and disgust that she’d seen the last time Gwen had looked at her.
Natalie snapped back to reality, face pushed so hard into her knees that, as she lifted her head, it took time for her cheeks to regain feeling. The only sound was the ceiling fan, and the rhythmic rotation of the blades returned her to the moment. She leaned to the side, enough to peer around the island. Wesley was gone.
She rose to her feet with extreme caution, but once she was upright and could confirm she was alone, Natalie hustled for the door. She slithered out and ran across the driveway. Once safely back in her apartment, she chucked her dirty socks into the laundry basket and ran to the window. In the light of the moon, she saw Wesley had found his way into bed.
Natalie crawled under the covers, her heart beating rapidly. She rubbed her fingertips together, remembering the texture of Wesley’s face. She didn’t think about Gwen again that night, only about what would have happened if Wesley had caught her.
- - - - -
Days had passed sinceNatalie had last talked to Wesley on the front step, since she’d gone into his house, since she’d touched his face. As soon as Gwen went inside her apartment for the night, Natalie raced home.
When she opened the door to the garage, it was empty; Wesley’s car wasn’t there. Natalie was furious. She had left Gwen early for nothing. It couldn’t be for nothing.
Natalie went back to her car, where she sat for hours, parkedbehind the garage, waiting for his headlights to blast through her windshield, and when they did, she climbed out as though she had just arrived.
The one-sided clandestine meeting in the driveway didn’t go as Natalie had hoped. She wasn’t sure what she’d hoped would happen, but it wasn’t that. Wesley brushed her off. He barely stopped to acknowledge her, only enough to tell her that he wasn’t feeling well. He gave her a smile and then coughed a few times, but the coughs seemed even more forced than the smile.
Did he know she had gone into the house? Was he mad at her? Was he afraid of her?
Natalie hated this feeling. Wesley had come toherdoor. He had calledherover to the steps that night. He couldn’t all of a sudden hate her. It wasn’t fair. Maybe he really was just sick. Maybe that’s all this was. She had to know.
She decided to bring him soup. That seemed like the neighborly thing to do. Then he couldn’t ignore her.
- - - - -
Natalie was at thegrocery store first thing the next morning. Two cans of low sodium chicken broth rolled around in the shopping basket as she reached for a produce bag. She rubbed the end between her fingers, waiting for the right piece to catch and separate. Over and over, but the thing stayed sealed tight.
She could sense a man behind her, waiting for his turn to grab a bag, but keeping his distance so as not to embarrass her. It didn’t work. She felt the pressure and started moving her fingers faster, not getting any closer. She couldn’t take it anymore and crumpled the useless bag into a ball and chucked it down among the cucumbers. She threw the celery into the basket before grabbing a package ofcarrots, and as she breezed past the display of onions, she snatched one off the top. That would have to do.
The basket had some weight to it now and Natalie hooked her elbow through the handle for more leverage as she made her way to the cash register. She was content with her ingredients until a thought came to her, a sick thought she tried to brush off, but it came back. She could just buy it. It didn’t mean she would use it. She would just buy it.
The self-checkout line was empty and she went straight to the register. With the basket still hooked around her arm, she scanned her items. A three-pound whole chicken, two cans of broth, celery, carrots, an onion, and a Mouse Killer Disposable Bait Station.
Thirty-Nine
Sixteen years ago
Birthdays were what youmade of them at the facility; no one in charge was going to do anything for you. About half the kids had families who would visit and that was something. If the woman in the kitchen liked you, she might slip you an extra dessert. But Natalie didn’t have any family and the woman in the kitchen still held a grudge from the time Natalie had thrown her milk against the wall when given meat sauce that the lady wouldn’t let her swap for marinara.
“Happy birthday!” Gwen yelled, whipping Natalie’s blankets off her.
Natalie’s eyes shot open as she struggled to get her bearings.
“Finally, you’re thirteen,” said Gwen. “You’re a teenager! And it means absolutely nothing,” she teased.
“Thanks,” Natalie said as she sat up in her bed.
“What do you want to do today?” Gwen asked.
“What do you mean?”
