"Waiting," he says. "She was afraid you wouldn't come."
"Because my entire life was a lie? Because I don't trust you?"
He looks at me. "Because she didn't think you'd be able to escape."
He makes it sound like I was a prisoner, like I was held against my will, like I hadn't welcomed Naz into my world. "You know nothing about what I have with him. Neither of you do."
"I know more than you do. You're nothing but a means to an end to him, something for him to play with. He ain't stupid. He's biding his time, and you make it easier for him. That's all that is."
Anger brews inside of me. I want to demand he stop the car, that he let me out, that he never look or speak to me again, but where does that leave me? Cold, and alone, with nowhere to go, and no more answers than I showed up with. So I just glare at him for a moment before turning away.
"I know what you're thinking," he says.
I scoff. "You know nothing."
"Maybe I don't know the person you are, but I know the one you were born to be," he says. "I know your blood, girl. It's in my veins, too. And I know you're thinking maybe he's a good man, that maybe you can help him."
I'm not a good man, Karissa, and I never will be. So don't think you can fix me, or that I'll ever change, because I won't. I can't
"You're wrong," I say quietly. "He can't be fixed."
"Then why were you with him?"
"Because I thought maybe he didn't need to be."
"He's fucked up, Karissa. His head doesn't work right."
"Yeah, well, why do you think that is? Huh? Could it have been the bullet he took to the chest?"
He grips the steering wheel tightly. He doesn't like that I talk back to him. "There are two sides to every story."
"Then please, by all means, tell me yours. I'm dying to hear what compelled you to murder a pregnant woman and almost kill your best friend, because I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for that."
He slams the brakes harder than necessary, the car jolting to a stop at a red light. His eyes zero in on me. He's got a temper, one I can feel building in the car. It makes my skin crawl, sending up red flags that beg me to zip my lips. It's not smart to piss off the driver of the car you're in.
"Nobody's innocent," he says. "Nobody. Not me, not him, not her, not your mother… not even you. I did what I had to do to survive the game, and then afterward, I did what I had to for you and your mother to live."
"You left us."
"I had a target on my back, girl. What the hell did you expect me to do?"
"Not put a target on your back in the first place."
He laughs bitterly but doesn't respond to that. I say nothing else, watching out the window. It's the longest drive of my life, even longer than the trip to Waterford with Naz, over an hour trapped in this car with this man as he takes us somewhere in New Jersey.
Somewhere I've never been before.
The house is modest, but a far cry from the slums they were in last time. It's a home—somebody's home, complete with trimmed hedges and a white picket fence. I follow John inside nervously, finding my mother sitting on a plush burgundy couch in the living room, Killer asleep on the floor near her. The television is on, some movie playing in the background, but all I hear is my mother's frantic voice as she rushes toward me. Her hands paw at me, her eyes wild. "Are you okay, Kissimmee? Please tell me you are. Please tell me he didn't hurt you."
She's on the verge of tears.
I shake my head, in a daze, trying to adjust to my surroundings. "No, of course not. He didn't hurt me. He wouldn't."
John laughs bitterly again.
"You're sure?" she asks. "You can tell me if he did."
"I'm fine, Mom. I just…" I look past her, around the room. It's well lived-in, the scent of flowers clinging to the air from a lit candle. "Who lives here?"
"I do," John says.
I turn to him, brow furrowing. "How long have you lived here?"
He seems to consider that for a moment, startling me when he reaches into his coat and pulls out a gun. Every muscle in my body seizes up at the sight of it, but he turns around and slips it on top of the mantle over his unlit fireplace before turning to me. "How old are you these days?"
"Nineteen."
"About nineteen years, then."
I blink rapidly. "You've lived here the whole time? The whole time we've been moving around, running, you've been here?"
"Yes."
"Do you not see how fucked up that is?"
He shrugs.
Before I can completely lose it, my mother grabs my arm and pulls me down onto the couch with her. "I know it's hard to understand…"
"No, it's quite easy, actually," I tell her, raising my voice so loud that Killer perks up, lifting his head to look at me. "You've spent years on the run because of something he did, and it hasn't affected him at all. He has a house, a home, something I've wanted my entire life, but I couldn't have… he had it. He has it."
She casts her eyes toward John as he lingers in the room, relaying some silent message to him that I don't understand. None of the hate I want to see from her is present when she regards him. No, I see something else instead. Compassion.
It fuels my hate more.
He excuses himself then, giving us some privacy. As soon as he's gone, she turns back to me again. "Just because he's been in one place doesn't mean he hasn't been affected. He lost his family."
"Him?" I ask incredulously. "He lost his family? He killed Naz's!"
"I know," she says, her words striking me hard. I never doubted it, but the confirmation is a hard pill to swallow. "He did."
"Did you know?" My voice is tentative. I'm afraid of her answer. "Did you know he was going to do it, that he was planning to…?"
"Of course not," she says, those tears in her eyes breaking forth and running down her cheeks. "Maria was my best friend. Had I known… had he told me… I would've stopped him. I would've done whatever I had to in order to stop him. But I didn't know until it was too late, until it was over, until he came home…"
She closes her eyes as she flinches at the memory.
"So why are you here now?" I ask, my voice low and accusing. I'm trying to stay calm, but I don't understand how she can sit in this room, in this house with him. How she can run to him after what he did. "Why are you even near him?"