She'd killed somebody.

The gun lay cold and heavy in her hands, barrel gleaming turquoise in the late afternoon sunlight that filtered through the drawn blinds. She studied the weapon like she'd never seen it before.

How could such a small hunk of steel and wood end a life so quickly? Just one pull. Bang, and a human being falls over. Forty years of living stopped in an instant.

She laid the Smith & Wesson pistol gingerly on the scarred coffee table, then picked it up and wiped the thing off with the hem of her Backstreet Boys T-shirt. Would that work? Would anyone be able to tell that Mercy Kim Winston had been here today?

Her heart squeezed like a rag pulled through Grandma Thompson's old-fashioned wringer. She blinked again at the dark shape sprawled on the floor. Everything was changed now. She was a murderer. Her face belonged on the evening news along with those scarred visages that made Mama take deep drags of her cigarette and curse at the TV.

I'm a killer.

Something cold dropped into her stomach, and for one wild second, she thought she might vomit. She pivoted slowly on the worn heel of a sneaker and took in the shabby room for the last time. The nappy green carpet held a fine layer of pet hair that spread like a net over hundreds of cigarette butts and burn holes.

Her eyes wandered across the dusty beige drapes and ugly gold-and-brown couch where she'd spent countless hours waiting for Mama. The fake-wood furniture was cheap and peeling, like something found by the side of the road. Discarded pizza boxes lay where they'd been tossed last night.

Last night...

When had last night started? Last night was everything before right now. Her life was one unbearably long last night, filled with fists thudding on flesh. Screams and threats and terror.

The trembling had started one last night a long time ago when she'd first hid under her bed and prayed to the dust bunnies that the fighting would end.

She clamped her lips between her teeth and forced her eyes to the body on the floor. His head lay in a pool of blood the same color as his stringy black hair. It looked like the stuff they tarred the road with. Wasn't blood supposed to be red?

The puddle had congealed like drying syrup, no longer oozing. A fly buzzed lazily around sightless eyes and landed on the black hole in the middle of his forehead.

Big hairy, mean, Carlos would never swat it away. He'd never swat at anything again.

From somewhere outside where things were normal, a horn honked.

Panic crackled through her chest like a bolt of lightning. The pink Minnie on her wrist said it was 8:30. She let out a startled cry. Even in the summer she had to be home by nine.

She crossed to the front door and covered the knob with her shirt before turning it. Through the torn screen, she surveyed Random Street.

The sunset painted the leafy trees orange and yellow, but left the rest of the street in shadow. Gray trash ruffled along the curb like dingy lace. Across the street, a bony brown dog pawed at a fast-food wrapper. Crickets had begun their evening serenade, and from a yard far away, a lawn mower hummed.

She huddled at the broken door, listening, waiting, until satisfied, she slipped through the doorway and pulled it shut behind her. Like a ghost, she melded into the overgrown hedges and pressed her back flat against the rough brick. Her heart slammed her chest like a heavy hand as she eased through the thicket that tore at her long ponytail.

The backyard fence was overgrown with brambles and honeysuckle and she darted across the open space and buried herself in it. Keeping to it, she crawled along the fence until she came to the familiar opening.

Once through, she glanced back at the dark, empty house where nothing moved.

She let out a long breath and turned away. She'd never have to look at it again. It was nearly a mile home, but she could make it before nine. Before Mama noticed and started yelling for her. A mile was a long way to walk after dark, especially when you're only twelve.
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