Under Her Care(78)

Genevieve dramatically rolls her head from side to side. “I don’t see any police.” She sounds almost drunk.

“What do you think I was doing laying out there in the grass? I recorded this entire thing, and then I called them.” Except I’m not sure the call went through. The reception is sketchy out here. Someone had to hear the shot, though. Someone called. Please let someone have called.

“Your stupid video doesn’t prove anything,” she spit.

“You just shot an innocent man!”

She snorts. “He’s hardly an innocent man, and besides, I only shot him in the leg.” She says it like it’s an absolution of wrong. Is she that delusional?

“What did you do to Mason?” My voice cracks with emotion as I stare into her makeup-smeared face. What will happen to that poor boy? She’ll never get near him again once they find out how she hurt him, but will he ever be right again? Is it possible to undo all she’s done?

“I didn’t do anything with Mason except make him extraordinary.” Her voice fills with pride. “Mason was never going to be anything without me because he was just so ordinary, you know? Mothers know their kids, and I pretty much knew from the time he was a year old that he was going to be a bit of a dud. No personality. Boring. Always whining. I mean, I don’t know what’s worse, having no personality or being annoying?” There’s not an ounce of remorse in her voice. Only arrogance. “We could’ve changed the way the world sees disabilities if things would’ve just gone the way they were supposed to.”

Her confession stuns me into silence. Nothing she does should surprise me, but it’s still shocking to hear her unapologetically admit such cruelty. We need to change how society views individuals with disabilities, but what kind of a sick person creates one in their child so they can make that happen? In what twisted world does that become okay? What happened to her to make her this way, or was she just born bad?

She sits up slowly, never taking her eyes off me.

“What are you doing?” I ask, waving the gun at her and motioning to the spot she was just in. “Get down.”

She shrugs and smirks. Her hair damp on her forehead. Blood crusted on her cheek. “I don’t really feel like laying back down,” she says as she puts one leg up like she’s going to stand. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s coming out this way, does it?” She puts her hand up to her ear and makes a dramatic production of pretending to listen. “Nope. No sirens.”

“Sit back down!” I yell, pointing to the ground with one hand and pointing the gun at her with the other, but she’s unfazed. There’s not an ounce of fear on her face. Hers is a look of pure defiance as she pushes herself up to standing position and gives me a huge smile.

“You’re not going to shoot me, and you know that as well as I do, honey.” She cocks her hip. “And here’s the thing we both know too.” She pauses like she’s giving me a chance to jump in, but I don’t know what to do, so I just stand there pointing the gun at her. “The police aren’t coming. There’s no reception down here. They keep it that way to keep the teenagers away.”

Anxiety fills me as I remember the annual meeting where the city council votes yes every year to keep it a dead zone. My heart sinks, and I try to hide the realization, but it’s too late. She’s read the recollection. She takes a teensy step to the side, followed by another.

“I’m just going to go, sweetie, so we can both get on with our lives, okay? Put this whole thing behind us, you know? You’ll never see me again, I promise.” Her eyes are brazen and bold underneath her long lashes. She puts her hands up as she slowly steps backward. “Look, you did your best. Nobody’s going to fault you for that.” She gives me a patronizing nod like she’s the one feeling sorry for me.

“You’re not going anywhere.” But I sound like a kid. A babysitter who’s been left alone with their younger siblings trying to get them to do something, and they’re just laughing.

Which is exactly what she does. She tilts her head back and laughs. Then starts walking.

“Bye, Casey.” She waves her fingers at me, then bolts. I sprint after her, but she’s too fast, and I’m spent within seconds. I’ll never be able to keep up with her through the woods. My legs are mush. Muscles shredded.

“Stop!” I scream at the top of my lungs, but she pays me no attention in the same way the man ignored her when he tried to get away. “Stop!” I scream again, louder this time. “Or I’ll shoot.”

But rules don’t apply to her. They never have. I can’t let her get away. If she gets into the trees past the party pit, the police might never find her. My stomach clenches. Sweat dribbles down my back.

I raise the gun and aim at her, slowly traveling down to her right calf. My hands are clenched around the magazine. My fingers tight on the trigger. I don’t take my eyes off her as I pull it back. The gun doesn’t make a sound, and then a loud crack shatters the air. She lets out a yelp like an animal who’s been shot, and she plummets to the ground, shrieking in pain.

My fingers go loose on the trigger. My arms drop, but I’m not letting go of the gun. She’s wounded, but she’s not dead, and until she’s in handcuffs, I don’t trust her. I hurry over to the pile of leaves where I left my phone, keeping one eye on her and the other scanning for it. A puddle of blood forms around her as she lies bleeding in the tracks left by the truck.