Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(51)

It’s an hour later when I get up, shuffle across the floor, and pick up the piece of paper that’s been shoved under the door. I know it’s from Connor, and his sharp-pointed printing makes me smile a little.

Dahlia’s picture makes me want to cry all over again, but I put it on my nightstand, propped up so I can look at it. Maybe I can find a frame for it.

The lure of Rice Krispies peanut butter chocolate treats finally gets me to unlock the door and slump into the kitchen. Javier eyes me from where he’s working on the computer. I can tell he’s thinking about what to say, but I don’t want to talk to anybody. I get my snack fast and start back to my room. But not fast enough.

“Hey,” he says, “your brother’s asked for more stuff to do. How do you feel about learning to shoot at the gun range?”

I nearly forget about feeling bad. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Mom hasn’t taken us.”

“I’ll clear it with her first. But would you be interested if she agrees?”

“Hell yes, I would!” The idea makes me feel about ten thousand times more in control. “When?”

“When I get her okay. Slow your roll, gunslinger, you’re not shooting anything for a long while even if she says yes. Tell you what: we’ll go to the range after it closes, and you’re going to pick out a gun. I’ll give you a choice of three. Then you’re going to learn how to take it apart, clean it, and put it back together.”

“Wait, that’s all? I already know how to do that!” I’ve watched my mom clean hers a hundred times. He doesn’t reply. I nibble on the treats. “Oh, come on. Really?”

“That’s all we’re going to do at first. Choose, disassemble, clean, reassemble. Okay?”

“But I want to do target practice!”

“I know.”

“Why can’t I?”

“Because this is how I do it. If you don’t like it, we don’t have to go at all.”

He’s as bad as my mom. I seriously think about saying so, but I don’t, because I don’t see how it gets me anywhere except staying here for another round of Monopoly.

“Fine,” I say, but I say it in a way that makes it clear it isn’t. “Sure. Whatever.”

“Great.” Javier shuts the laptop. “This isn’t a game, Lanny. You understand that, right? A gun is a responsibility. The second you touch one, you assume the power of life and death, and you can’t take that lightly.”

“I know that!” His look says he doesn’t think I really do. I try to look calm and adult, because I know that’s what he wants. “Okay. I’ll pick a gun. I’ll learn how to do what you want. Then can I get to shoot?”

“When your mom says you can,” he tells me. “But not tonight. One step at a time.”

He’s carrying a gun on his hip right now. It looks like the one Mom carries, so it’s probably a 9mm semiautomatic. Mom’s extremely careful with her guns, but every once in a while, I’ve been able to pick one up, feel the weight of it. He’s right. There’s something that changes when you have a gun in your hand. It feels reassuring and exciting, sure. But there’s something else, too. I’ve never quite been able to say what it is. Maybe when he finally lets me fire one, I’ll know what I’m trying to tell myself.

It’s a start, I tell myself. Stop pushing.

I don’t like to be patient. I think I got that from Mom.

I lower my voice and say, “Have you talked to Mom in the past couple of days?”

“Yeah, for a little bit. She had to go before I could pass the phone on to you. She’s okay.”

“Did Mom say anything about . . . him?” I almost said Dad, but I know I shouldn’t call him that. Not out loud. We all know who I’m talking about.

Javier shakes his head. “Nothing yet,” he says. “There’s no reason to think he’s anywhere around here, but let’s keep on as we’re doing. Stay inside as much as you can stand. Stay offline. The longer we can keep where you are a secret, the better and safer for all of us.”

“You could at least let me talk to my friends,” I tell him. I really mean Dahlia. “They won’t sell us out.” She won’t sell me out.

“And your friends tell other friends, and pretty soon everybody in Norton knows you’re back. You think your mom isn’t the best piece of gossip ever to hit this place? Nobody’s going to pass up the chance to talk about it.”

He’s right, of course. The friends thing is half-hearted. Javier takes his job seriously. So does Kez—who’s off at her real job as a cop right now, investigating some break-in around the other side of the lake. I hope it isn’t our house. I worry about that . . . about the kids from school who might break in, trash our house, take selfies in my bedroom humping my pillow. Go through my stuff, not that I have a lot of stuff after all the years on the run. It still hurts to imagine what little privacy I’ve ever had being violated.

But maybe it isn’t our house. Maybe the Johansens’ big-ass flat-screen TV finally got jacked. Or their Mercedes SUV.

Maybe someone’s ransacked Lancel Graham’s old house; after all, we might be killers by association, but Graham really did kill people. If Graham’s house gets trashed, I not only can’t be sorry about it, I approve. He was a sick, evil man, and if Mom and Kez and Sam hadn’t gotten to us in time . . . God only knows what would have happened. No. I know. It’s what happened to his other two victims, and to all the girls my dad killed.