my heart. My back began to crawl with cold sweat. My breathing hitched.
“You’re one of them,” she continued. “One of those people. That family. Named after dogs.”
Christ. I wasn’t going to be able to cover the ground between us before she pulled the trigger. The window was closed and locked and there was a screen. I wasn’t going to be able to duck through it and run away. I could only hold my ground and pray I didn’t piss myself. I hoped she called the cops instead of taking her hate out on the wrong Rand.
“Which one are you?” she asked. “Tell me.”
“Terrier,” I admitted.
“You look like your brother.”
“Right, but I’m not him.”
“But you’re in my house.”
She had me there. “I found the piece in your father’s nightstand drawer. I removed the clip.”
“No, you didn’t. I checked. I always check. My dad’s taught me all about guns since I was twelve. I’m a good shot. Not that I’d have to be at this range.”
“Shit. Look, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“You’re not going to get the chance.”
“Just let me explain.”
“You people are thieves and liars and murderers. What makes you think I’m going to listen to you even one more second?”
It was a good question. If I came home and found the brother of the man who’d murdered my sister standing in the middle of her bedroom, I would’ve made my play by now, whatever it was.
But along with the low-slung burning fury and the distress and the dull edginess that comes when someone hooked on pills needs to pop another one, she was intrigued and wanted to know what the hell I was doing here.
I had to engage her. I said, “Your rooms are the same. Yours and Becky’s. Why?”
“So you’ve already been in mine.”
“Yes.”
“Did you steal anything?”
“No.”
“Not enough time?”
“There was plenty of time. But I’m not a thief anymore.”
“Now you just break in to houses but don’tlaiр/p›
“Technically I didn’t break in. I just-”
“Shut up!”
“Your rooms are the same, except you’ve got a hiding place for your goodies. You’re hooked on antianxiety meds.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth opened as if I’d just slapped her. It was an ugly expression on a cute face. Then she grinned without humor. That was worse. She studied me and was offended by what she saw. “Care to guess why, you prick?”
I nodded. “I already know why. You should just call the cops. Ask for Detective Gilmore. Don’t worry, he’ll definitely give me a good beating. He already has this week. He’ll probably let you watch. Or help.”
She was still calm, assured, centered, but the hate inside her was looking to get out, and it flickered in her eyes. They were at least a little crazy. I’d done that to her. My family had done that to her.
“Last chance to tell me why you’re here. After this, I think I’m going to shoot you. I’m not sure where. Maybe in the knee. Maybe the balls. Maybe the head. I haven’t decided. Did you think about dying when you were going through our things?”
“No.”
“You should’ve. You must know something about last chances. Your brother’s used all of his up.”
I kept hoping she’d step farther into the room, or that her arms would tire, or that she’d drop her gaze and give me half a second to make some kind of a break. But it wasn’t going to happen. I could usually make a lie sound like the truth, but I was floundering with her. I felt sheepish just being here. I wondered if I could make the truth sound like the truth.
I said, “I’m in your house because I was hoping your parents hadn’t changed Rebecca’s room.”
“Why would you care about that?”
“I wanted to look at photos. I wanted to know a little more about her. My brother says he didn’t kill her. He admits he murdered the other seven people but says he didn’t touch her. He begged me to look into it.”
She started to laugh very quietly. It was grotesque. I’d made a similar noise when I’d run from my brother, pale and shaking. Her pupils were very large.
The girl said, “First you called her Becky, then Rebecca.”
I’d noted that too. “It was wrong of me to act so familiar.”
“Your game doesn’t even have any rules, does it?” she said. “You think it’s wrong to call her Becky but you don’t mind going through the drawers of a home you’ve invaded? Standing in a room of a girl murdered by your brother?”
“Actually, I do mind. I’m pretty ashamed. Listen, why don’t you call the cops?”
“What makes you think I won’t shoot you?”
“I was raised as a burglar. My whole life I’ve done nothing but take stupid chances. This is just one more.”
She lowered the gun a fraction, then raised it again. I was hoping if she pulled the trigger she would only shoot me in the leg. I very carefully reached for my pack of cigarettes and shook one out.
She said, “There’s no smoking in the house.”
I put the butt back in the pack. “Where do you smoke your pot?”
“In the yard, when no one else is home.”
“Fire your dealer. It’s cheap weed.”
“Your brother,” she said. The word itself seemed to dry her mouth. She licked her lips and swallowed. “Do you believe him?”
“No,” I told her. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Then why come around?”
“He’s my brother. I’ve hated him most of my life. But he’s my brother.”
“Why do you hate him so much?”
The question flustered me. I wasn’t sure that I’d ever thought about it before. I struggled for an answer. Long before the competition over women, even before the bad blood over incidents I remembered clearly-the times he ran out on me during a job, the taunts, the drunken posturing, the fights he started with fences that came back to cause me troubles-I had loved him. We had been friends. He’d protected me. I could remember riding on the handlebars of his bicycle while he kept one arm around my waist to keep me from falling. I thought he would never hurt me. But it had shifted somewhere, in a way I still didn’t understand. He grew angry with me, seemed to always be on the attack. I thought of him stabbing me with the Revolutionary War figure that led to the awful scarring on my chest.
But I supposed that he had his reasons too, if someone had bothered to ask him. Maybe he was only reacting to something I put out into the world. He probably thought that I was distant, cold, a tightass. Maybe I didn’t watch his back enough. Maybe he expected me to love him more, or better. Perhaps the truth was no deeper than the fact that Collie and I were simply wired to be enemies.
She squinted at me as if my hesitation was enough of a response. “You said a detective beat you up. That the truth?”
“Last night.”
“I don’t see any marks.”
I lifted my shirt. The bruises on my kidneys were a mottled blue and yellow. She appeared to be impressed with either my asskicking or my dog tat. She seemed to come to a decision. She lowered the gun. I had no doubt that if I moved toward her or tried to run or said anything out of line she’d shoot me out of my shoes. I stood still in the center of the room.
