pageant.â
âMorgan, darling, how wonderful!â exclaimed his mother. âIâm so proud. Youâll do such a lovely job. I adore the pageant.â
Do they let killers run Christmas pageants? thought Morgan. The thing is not to think about it. If I think about it, somebody might see it in my eyes. Be able to tell what I did. So I wonât think about it.
Starr was the blackmailer of the century.
I am not thinking about the stop sign, he thought, and faced her. His hands had gotten thick; the swelling was noticeable. If heâd been wearing his class ring, it would have hurt. Did guilt puff you up?
âIâm your sister,â said Starr, âand that means I get first dibs on costumes.â
âWill you let the Marland baby be Jesus again this year?â said Mom.
A woman who pretends her kid is Jesus, thought Morgan. What happens when she finds out her other kid helped kill somebody?
He had known the truth for five minutes. Already he was trying to spread the blame. Remy had never gone near the stop sign. Even Nickieâall heâd done was to choose it. But Nickie was a weakling. Morgan was the only one who had actually used the hacksaw.
âCanât you wait for the ads to talk?â said Dad. Even though it was only weather, he hated distractions when he was receiving information.
Mom, however, talked when she felt like it. âI recommend against it,â said Mom. âHeâs a toddler now. You canât predict what a one-year-old will do. He might scream or run away or throw up.â
âNeat,â said Starr. âJesus the vomiter.â
âLeave the room if you have to babble!â shouted Dad.
Whoever did that should be shot
.
Dad would shoot me. But he doesnât know. But he could. Easily. The signs are in the garage! I have to get rid of them.
What if Dad caught him?
His father was a big voice for Law and Order. Would he stick with that? Would Morgan go to prison? Or would he and his father destroy the evidence? Just a little father-son activity on a rainy weekend.
Thatâs right, he thought, think about yourself. A woman is dead, her little kid doesnât have a mother. But donât think about that. Hey. Put yourself first.
He took his fatherâs advice and left the room. He made it upstairs. He didnât fall down or scream or puthis fist through the wall or anything. He shut the door neatly behind him.
They were very privacy minded, the Campbells. Nobody would dream of coming in anybody elseâs room without permission. They met only in the kitchen, in front of the television, or inside the car.
Iâm safe in here, thought Morgan.
And Denise Thompson. She was safe where she was too.
Safe in a drawer at the morgue.
R emy did not sleep.
It was an event that had never happened in her sixteen years. Total insomnia. Her eyes never seemed to blink, let alone close. She lay in the dark thinking: Donât let it be ruined. Donât let Morgan hate me for being there. For seeing him. For saying yes to the whole thing. I want to have Morgan still!
Nice, Remy.
You kill a woman and all youâre worried about is whether Morgan kisses you again.
If Mom finds out â¦
So tell her first. Face the music.
But it would not be music. It was not music you faced when you killed somebody.
What did you face? Remy did not know.
How could it be me? I donât do bad things. I donât think bad things or say bad things. I canât be part of this!
She tilted the ankle and the foot that had such fun driving. She imagined Denise Thompsonâs foot on the gas pedal as she followed Cherry Road; Denise Thompsonâs confusion as she found herself in the middle ofâ
a truckâwhere did ? that ? come from?ârip foot off gasâslam brakeâslew to the sideâtry to avoidâtry!âno!âtoo lateâtooâ
But Remy could follow Denise Thompson no further.
M idnight passed and
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley