Bottom Feeder by Maria G. Cope

February
replays. Everything is the same, down to the smell of jambalaya
cooking on the stove. Only this time when the camera focuses on the
man’s face I glimpse emerald eyes through the misshapen features.
Jackson.
    My eyes pop open. The clock reads
2:47. I crawl into my closet, settling in my private spot behind
the mirror. I rest my head on the wooden planks.
    Before Mama died she cut a very neat,
well hidden hole in the floor back here. It holds a secret stash of
money that includes eighty percent of every paycheck from Just
Dance, plus every last cent from private lessons.
    Information for a bank account Mama
started for me before I was born is also in one of the slim boxes.
It’s like she knew I was going to need an escape one day. Like she
knew I was going to hold these secrets. The second box holds
photos, a hair brush, a bottle of perfume and other small items
that belonged to her. Daddy burned everything else.
    I drift to sleep. My nightmare
immediately begins again. I force myself awake and sit with my back
against the wall.
    I think of the FBI agent I met the day
Dixon and I drove to Atlanta. Alexander Mace. He is working things
from his end without involving me directly. However grateful I
should be, I know I am still involved. I know Agent Mace is going
to need a favor someday and I will have to deliver.
    Sometimes I think I’m a horrible
daughter for turning Daddy over to the FBI.
    What was I supposed to do? Sit around
while he murders people? I can take whatever Larry dishes out to
me, but knowing others are hurt—or worse—at the command of my
father is unbearable. I have this constant ache in the pit of my
stomach that I have not done enough to stop him.
    I’ve done what I can to stop Larry
from hurting anyone else. Isn’t it funny that my personal monster
agreed to make a deal with me? If I take whatever he does to me, he
doesn’t hurt anyone else. So far he’s held up his end of the
deal.
    Dixon is my only friend because I’ve
always kept everyone else at bay. Friends of the female variety are
especially off limits. I would never want them to be in Larry’s
crosshairs. I tried to push Dixon away years ago. He knew what I
was doing and stuck by me.
    The problem is, the day we drove to
Atlanta was a mistake.
    I am a planner. An obsessive planner
who writes down every step of every plan I’ve ever had, have, or
plan to have. I have plans of plans. Except for that one. I was in
such a rush to get those disks out of my possession that I skipped
over making a complete plan. All common sense flew out the
window.
    I should have called the
FBI from a prepaid disposable cell phone. I should have gone to the
FBI office by bus or taxi, being let out a few blocks away and
walking the rest. Maybe I should have even worn a
disguise—sunglasses, wig, shoes with hidden platforms to make me
taller . . . something. Anything.
    I took none of these precautions. I
used one of the few payphones left on Tybee Island and drove that
stupid BMW with its stupid navigation system that I didn’t think to
erase until later that night.
    My father seems to know everything
that goes on in this town. I cannot help wondering if he knows I
turned him in to the Feds.

 
    Jackson
     
    Finally alone in the confines of my
tiny bedroom, I sit on the edge of my bed and think about the
longest damn day of my life.
    What have I gotten myself into with
Cordell? Was he looking at his security screens when I told Maddy
goodnight?
    After an hour of staring at the
ceiling, I attempt to sleep. The effort is futile, as it is
interrupted throughout the night by vivid nightmares. Always the
same, but different. I wake up with my sheets drenched in sweat.
It’s no use to try and sleep anymore. I lay on my bare mattress,
thinking about Maddy’s fingers running through my hair.
     
    Mama is having her first cup of coffee
by the time I come back from my morning run. Insisting coffee is a
bad habit to kick, she offers me juice.
    “ What are your