BooksBarbecue
Back We Were Killers Once
Chapters (65)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty–one
  25. Twenty–two
  26. Twenty–three
  27. Twenty–four
  28. Twenty–five
  29. Twenty–six
  30. Twenty–seven
  31. Twenty–eight
  32. Twenty–nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty–one
  35. Thirty–two
  36. Thirty–three
  37. Thirty–four
  38. Thirty–five
  39. Thirty–six
  40. Thirty–seven
  41. Thirty–eight
  42. Thirty–nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty–one
  45. Forty–two
  46. Forty–three
  47. Forty–four
  48. Forty–five
  49. Forty–six
  50. Forty–seven
  51. Forty–eight
  52. Forty–nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty–one
  55. Fifty–two
  56. Fifty–three
  57. Fifty–four
  58. Fifty–five
  59. Fifty–six
  60. Fifty–seven
  61. Author’s Note
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. Also by Becky Masterman
  64. About the Author
  65. Newsletter Sign-up

My face gets sort of numb and I guess my ears do, too, because the conversation is muffled and I stop being able to hear exactly what they’re saying almost as bad as when I’m under water in the neighbor’s pool and someone shouts “Marco Polo.” That’s okay because I don’t want to hear them anymore. I hear a whooshing sound and my pulse is beating so hard in the side of my neck that I can feel it. I wish I hadn’t heard what I heard. I only wish, I pray, Mom will come and tell the men to stop talking about killed children, or at least tell me it’s time for bed and take me away from the table, because I can’t seem to move on my own.

Prayer doesn’t do any good.

Sitting at the table, in my mind I keep hearing shotgun blasts. I keep feeling the cold water in the bathtub sloshing against my face as it goes under. I see the water turn pink. My thumb moves over the coarse hair on Dad’s forearm to stop imagining, but I can’t get the children out of my mind and how much they make me think of Ariel and Todd. What if someone comes into our house and does that to them? To me?

After silently begging her for so long, I’m finally taken by Mom and put to bed. But of course I stay awake staring at where the ceiling would be if the light were on, with my sheet tucked up around my ears on both sides of my head, as if that can protect me from men who kill children. Men’s voices continue to filter into my room. Then the voices finally die, doors open and shut with good-nights, lights go out, and the whole house is dark and still. When I figure my parents won’t be coming out of their room I push aside my bedsheets. They’re sweaty with my fear. I get out of bed.

Ariel asks, “Where you going?” We share a room and even at four she’s a light sleeper.

I say, “Bathroom.” I’m hopeful. “You want to talk?”

She says no and rolls over.

I creep down the hall, which is lighter than our bedroom thanks to the night-light plugged into an outlet. I spend that whole night in the hallway outside Mom and Dad’s bedroom. You didn’t wake up my parents if you were scared at night. They’d just get angry because Dad needed his rest. So I spend that night with my knees drawn up, as small as I can get. My back bones are pressed against their closed door. The muffled sound of my father’s snoring is a little comforting.