It all happens so quickly. Two shots, and Russ hits the ground, shaking the room with the impact, his shouts bloodcurdling. Amy shrieks, flipping thelight on, her eyes wide, body trembling. Isabela’s wailing slices through the room, as if she and Russ are competing for loudest scream, and it jars me out of my stupor.
I keep the barrel of my gun trained on Amy, avoiding looking at what I’m sure is a bloodstained pink fuzzy rug in the center of my daughter’s once serene nursery. Blood freaks me out. It’s sticky and hot, the smell of iron permeating the air. Because I love myself, I refuse to assess the damage. I’ve done my part. I’ve stopped the bad guys. Now, it’s everyone else's turn to jump in.
Except, thereisno one else. Not a single soul is in sight, and if I have to shoot Amy, I might faint. I hate this bitch, but shooting a woman seems so much more impossible than shooting Russ had been. I can’t imagine actually pulling the trigger again.
“Russ! Russ, my sweet boy,” Amy sobs, falling to her knees beside him, reaching out to tamp his bleeding wounds. I back myself over to the closet, opening the door, keeping Betty White secured in my quivering hand. “Shhh, shhh,mija.It’s okay, you’re alright,” I coo, trying to find a twisted balance betweenMamiand my new apparent job title: assassin.
Amy reaches for the gun Russ had dropped when she thinks I’m not paying attention, but I shake my head. “Uh uh. You saw what I did to your son, and I’m sure you don’t want that gaudy pleather nonsense you call an outfit covered in blood. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your ass seated and call the cops so he doesn’t bleed to death and traumatize my child further.”
She gapes at me, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. My pulse is racing in my neck, and my stomach chooses now to announce I have gas, rumbling loudly through the room. The anxiety shits really need to wait. Just another hour,please. I like this house. I don’t want to have to burn it down if I shit all over and have thishijo de puta'sblood splattered all over.
She finally nods, slowly reaching into her back pocket and retrieving her phone.
“I need”—more groaning—“help,” Russ says hoarsely between screams.
“Should’ve thought about that before you entered someone’s home looking to kidnap them. Newsflash, Russ: Women aren’t your grandpa's victims anymore.We’re armed now.”
Ringing from Amy’s phone drags my attention to her—her brown eyes glisten with tears, pale face red and puffy, gray hair a mess.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“Put it on speaker,” I instruct.
“Hello? Did you mean to contact emergency services?” the cool-toned woman answers again.
“Hi, yes. My name is Mayte Avila. I live at sixty-eight Silvercrest Drive in Hidden Valley, Oklahoma. There has been a break-in.” I repeat the words Cynthia told me to make sure I say if I ever have to use the gun she sold me. “I felt threatened and shot the first intruder in the knees. I was protecting myself and my daughter. It was an act of self-defense.”
“Okay, hold tight, Mayte. I’m Lisa. I’m dispatching to you now. Is there anyone else with you? You mentioned a first intruder. Does that mean there’s a second?”
“Thank you, Lisa. Yes, the second intruder is unharmed—” I cut Amy a no bullshit stare and mouth the words,“For now. Don’t try me, bitch,”before continuing to relay the events to Lisa, impatiently waiting for the red-and-blue lights that’ll rescue me.
No, this is not one of those stories where I feel safe and protected by my local law enforcement. What they’re rescuing me from, however, is my second worst fear. And since I’ve overcome the first, my toilet is going to help me prevent the second as soon as I can get my child in the arms of someone I can trust.
Chapter Seventy-Three
PARTNERS IN CRIME
FRIDAY, JUNE 27
I rushthrough the front door, and when I get inside, I’m stunned and elated to hear Mayte on the phone with a dispatcher.
I run to Isabela’s room, and my stomach roils at the sight of Russ curled up on his side, clutching his knees in a puddle of his own blood. Amy is sitting on the ground in one of her signature over-the-top outfits, hands clamped down on her son’s knees, her whole body trembling.
Mayte’s standing with her body half concealed by the closet door. Her eyes meet mine, lighting up, a wide smile stretching across her lips. It’s entirely misplaced given the circumstances, but my blood sings with relief.
I step around the crime scene, rushing to Mayte’s side as the dispatcher says, “Okay, Mayte. Help is on the way. Sit tight and stay on the line.”
“Thank you so much, Lisa!” she tells her. “My best friend showed up, so she’s here too. Her name is Lola Lima. She has dark-brown, curly hair, and she’s wearing a red Adidas sweat suit that's at least two sizes too big and makes her look like she belongs in a nineties boy band.”
“Can you get to the point?” I ask her, groaning.
“Oh yeah, sorry. She’s here, so please tell everyone not to shoot her—” My eyes grow wide, jaw dropping. She mouths,“You never know!”before continuing. “I have to step away to use the bathroom, and I’m leaving her with my gun and my daughter.”
She looks down to see I have a gun of my own and shoves hers into my hand. “Just in case!” she says before sprinting through the room, her thighs pressed together, ass cheeks dimpled in her brightly colored leggings as she hurries away to do what she does best in high anxiety situations. I’m left here with a million thoughts, but the most powerful is that I’m just glad there’s a reasontolaugh at a time like this.
Which reminds me—there’s now a more pressing matter to tend to.
“Hey, Lisa?” I ask, drawing a glare out of Amy at the sound of my voice.
