For a long moment I couldn’t move. There was dead silence, but at the same time my ears rang with the gunshot. All I was thinking was: I shot Pita I shot Pita I shot Pita…

Elizaveta elbowed backward, away from Pita’s body.

“Pita!” I said, scrambling forward. I tried not to look at the wound in her chest but couldn’t help it. A small hole marked her skin directly between her breasts, an inch above the center gore of her bra. It was gushing blood.

Her eyes stared at me, accusing.

“Pita…?” I said, hearing my voice in stereo, the thickness of it. Time seemed to have slowed down, as if by some quirk of relativity.

“You shot me…” she said, a rill of blood trickling down her chin.

“Pita!” It was Jesus, rolling onto his knees. He crawled frantically toward her, shoving past me to take my place. He lowered his forehead to his sister’s. He mumbled something in Spanish, his lips inches from hers.

I backed away. Elizaveta cupped her hand on my shoulder. I was aware of her doing this. I was aware of María standing against the wall, staring at the bloody knife in her hand. I was aware of Rosa peeking out of the bedroom.

I was aware of all this but none of it. I was trying to comprehend what I did, waiting for myself to react to the horror of it.

Then Jesus’s shoulders began to shake as he sobbed. A moment later he reeled on me, wiping tears from his eyes, a clenched expression on his face. “She’s dead, Jack! You killed her! You fucking killed her!”

This isn’t happening, I thought. It’s wrong. It can’t be happening. But it’s done. It’s been done.

I opened my mouth but had nothing to say. The right words weren’t there.

“She was going to kill me,” Elizaveta said.

“Bullshit!” Jesus snarled.

“She was!” Rosa cried. “I saw her!”

“You did this,” Jesus wailed at me. “You killed her.”

“You did!” I said, directing my anger and anguish at him. “You were going to shoot us! You fucking caused all this.”

“You bastard!” He grabbed the sickle.

I pointed the pistol at him. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? You shot my sister!”

“Calm down!”

Jesus got to his feet. I did too.

“Get back down, Jesus,” I said.

“Fuck you.”

“Get down!”

He started backing toward the front door.

“Stop!”

“Shoot me, Jack. Shoot me like you shot Pita, you fucking piece of shit.”

I took up the slack in the trigger.

“Jack…” Elizaveta said.

And I knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t shoot him.

I lowered the pistol.

Jesus opened the door and disappeared into the breaking dawn.

Elizaveta

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