Page 9 of Haven't Killed in Years
We sat in a stuffy conference room in the school office as he complained to my father that I hada real lip. He rattled off examples and my father only stared at the man, uttering an occasionalmmm.The teacher’s frustration grew to a point where I thought steam might shoot from his ears. Then my father finally spoke.
“What are you suggesting I do? Smack her?”
It was so unsettling to the teacher, making him realize that he, and only he, had become so angry and aggressive in a conversation about an eight-year-old girl. He turned on a dime, reduced the significance of mylip, and even apologized. I thought my father was so cool in that moment—an all-American hero. It was those times, away from anything sinister, when my dad knew just what to do and I was in awe. It had madeeverythingabout him more digestible.
Dominic slowed the van to a crawl. “Go ahead and turn the page.”
“Whoa,” exhaled Porter as he saw the next picture.
I followed suit and was blessed with the first of what would be many crime scene photos on this tour. A young woman in revealing clothing was sprawled across the pavement. There was dark red blood coming from her nose and mouth. Her lace top was slashed to pieces, soaked in the same red. She’d been brutally killed by my father—my supposed hero.
“This is Amanda Fallon, street name Fountain,” said Dominic.
“She was a sex worker?” asked Porter.
“Likely, from what they could gather asking around. She lived on the streets. Not a lot of information beyond that. She was one of Abel’s later victims. He killed her only two weeks before he was arrested.”
“Allegedly,” I said.
“No, this one’s good. They found her missing earring in his house.”
I looked closer at the photo. I remembered this one. The recent ones were easier to remember. “How many times was she stabbed?” I asked.
“Twelve,” answered Dominic.
They were quick stabs and I knew the cadence. I counted the ticks in my head.1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12. I didn’t like when he stabbed. It was never a quick killing. The stabs were quick, but the death was not. There was always a moment, some longer than others, when the victim would look at us, knowing they were dying. I didn’t like when they looked at me. What did they expect me to do about it? Anyway, his gloves were drenched in blood. We threw them into the river on the way home. My dad was always having to buy new gloves. It was a shame Amazon Prime didn’t exist back then.
- - - - -
A few hours andseveral crime scenes later, we were pulling up in front of my old house. It was painted gray now, recent enough so as to not show any signs of deterioration. In my mind, no one would ever want to live in that house and it would just sit there, slowly dilapidating over time. I guess with housing prices the way they were, a little dark history was worth it for a nice discount.
Dominic parked the van in front. “Here it is, the Haggerty family home. Abel and Reanne lived here for eleven years before they moved to a larger home—the big house, get it?”
“That’s awful,” said Porter. “Don’t do jokes. I don’t think they’re your thing.”
“Be sure to put it on the comment card at the end of the tour,” Dominic joked, ignoring the advice. “Now, turn to the next page and you’ll see a picture of Abel and Reanne being led from the house.”
I’d seen that picture before. It had been in a lot of papers. Once again, both of my parents stared blankly off-camera. They loved doing that. Such creeps.
“Can we go inside?” Porter asked our guide.
“No. People live in there.”
“So what?” Porter opened the door and hopped out of the van.
Dominic cut the engine and we both raced to get out and follow Porter as he darted across the lawn toward the front porch.
“Stop,” Dominic whisper-shouted. “It’s trespassing.”
Porter knocked on the front door, then turned back. “I’m knocking. It’s not trespassing.”
Dominic and I mounted the porch behind him with no choice but to wait and see if someone answered the door. Porter bounced a little as he waited. He was really into this, but I wasn’t sure what he expected. It’s not like the new homeowners had a shrine to Abel.
Minutes passed and Porter got antsy. He pushed through us and down the porch steps. I saw Dominic’s shoulders relax, relieved to go back to the van, but he wasn’t so lucky. Porter took off along the side of the house toward the backyard. Once again, we were chasing him.
The grass was greener, literally, and the patio furniture was better quality, but the trees were the same. There was one in particular with low branches that I had been able to reach and climb on for as long as I could remember. I stood still while Dominic followed Porter around, begging him to go back to the van. I closed my eyes and smelled my neighborhood. I crouched down and ran my hand over the grass. I remembered being there. It was still part of me.
“Gwen! Can you help me or what?” Dominic shouted from across the yard.
