If You Wrong Us by Dawn Klehr Page A

repaired; a sketchy attendance record after the accident; a history of trouble with the law; and swarms of rumors about his general “freakiness” in school.
    What I needed was evidence linking him to the site (because I’d lied when I told him I had it); witnesses to back up the motive that he was obsessed with Brit; and an enhanced rap sheet.
    I started with the rap sheet, framing him for petty crimes and even accusing him of causing another accident. I knew it wouldn’t amount to anything, but just having it recorded would help our case.
    Next up was to plant evidence at the crash site. My car and the Vegas’ car had already been totaled and hauled away before I could use them. But I did get a very nice new vehicle out of the deal. Brit’s one parting gift. Thanks, sis.
    I spent days combing over the site with Johnny to find something to link Travis to it; there was nothing to be had. He’d covered his tracks. That’s when I had to go out on my own. I needed to do a little creative detective work to make it happen, but Johnny couldn’t know about that part. For this to work, his hatred of Travis had to be genuine. And justified.
    Once I got going, it wasn’t hard. One day, in the school parking lot, I was able to crack Travis’s side mirror and remove a piece of glass that could be transferred to the site, as well as a chunk of rust from the front end of his Jeep. Then I added a candy wrapper and some other garbage with his fingerprints on it that “must’ve fallen out of his car when he got out to assess the damage.”
    Now close to the next step—of adding my witnesses to the mix—I was giddy to bust him. But when I looked at the punishment for manslaughter according to Michigan law, I wasn’t impressed. Twelve years looked about the average, and that was only if we were lucky enough to get a guilty verdict. It wasn’t nearly long enough.
    A new plan was necessary—one with more pain and the prison time he deserved. That’s when I decided to capture and sedate Travis and force a confession we could take to the police. But his confession couldn’t look forced; that was key. We’d have to get it without the risk of him recanting his story and without any opportunity for him to implicate me.
    So the chess match began.
    Travis didn’t stand a chance. I’d been playing since I was eight years old: the logic and symmetry had always appealed to me. My new objective, to quote Bobby Fischer, was to “crush the opponent’s mind.”
    I knew exactly how to accomplish just that. All I had to do was gather my pieces.
    With my new plan in place, I needed access to medication. Sedatives for the confession and holding period and something to end it all, if things went awry. Always have a back-up.
    I had the perfect solution: a volunteer position at the hospital. Nurse Julie got me the job.
    The first day, Julie took me on a tour around her floor—the second floor. “I’m so glad you’re doing this, Becca. It’s going to be really good for you.”
    She had no idea.
    “Thank you,” I said. “I’m happy to be here.”
    She put her arm around my shoulder and I bit the inside of my lip so I wouldn’t groan. I turned up the corners of my mouth to form something that resembled a smile. It was an expression passed down from my father—one that showed up whenever I talked about college.
    “You’re going to do splendidly wherever you land, Becca,” he’d say before flashing his grimace. My poor father. He knew I was going to go further with my education than he ever had, and it brought him pain just to think about it. And my parents wondered where the narcissism came from.
    That first night at the hospital, I served as an errand girl. Anything the nurses needed, I was at their command. Julie gave me pink scrubs, no doubt an homage to the old candy striper days.
    Though I hated pink, I didn’t mind the job.
    Make copies of these forms: check.
    Clean the waiting area and make coffee: check.
    Bring flowers to