Slain by Livia Harper

isn’t a man at all. It’s a pile of stuff, pulled out of my closet haphazardly. What would someone want in my closet?  
    The realization strikes me. My savings. The cash we’re using for New York. I hid it under my bed, along with my acceptance letter and a course catalogue from NYU. Nearly five thousand dollars, saved from birthdays and Christmas and Easter cards, and an early graduation present from Grandma Wellington. It’s absolutely every cent I’ve gotten over the last year.  
    I scramble to the floor and dig out the shoebox. Something clunks, loose inside of it.
    I open the box.
    And there, instead of my money, instead of my papers from NYU, is a gun.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

    I DON ’ T TOUCH IT . I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I’m not that stupid. I leave it in the box where my fingerprints can’t mark it. I peek inside again to make sure my mind isn’t playing tricks on me, but it’s still there. A gun, a real gun, with something screwed onto the end of it. A silencer?
    This can’t be just any gun. It must be the gun.
    The thought of it in my room, in my hands, pricks my skin with a thousand needles. I’m alert, aware of every part of my body. But not in the good, present way. I feel my bones stretching like they’re too big for my skin. Adrenaline pumps into my too-small heart, beating it to wildness like horses spooked by a rattlesnake.
    I hear a creak and jump.
    Then the familiar whir of the garage door rising. My parents. They can’t see this.
    But where can I put it?
    I only have seconds, moments, before they’re inside.
    Where won’t they look?
    I throw my shirt on and race downstairs, down to the storage room in the basement.  
    The old toy chest.  
    I hurl it open, shove the shoebox under dolls and puzzles and stuffed animals, then slam the lid shut.
    I run back upstairs, just in time to see my mother walk through the mud room into the house.
    “Didn’t think we’d beat you home,” my dad says, right behind her.
    But my mom has stopped. She’s reading my face. There must be terror written all over it.
    “What’s going on?” she asks.
    “Somebody broke into the house.”
    “Are they still here?” my dad asks, fear in his eyes.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Gloria, go outside and wait in the car. You too, Emma.”
    “Come on, honey.” My mom leads me back to the garage. I look back and see my dad pulling his hunting rifle from the hall closet.
    “Go on, Emma. Outside with your mother,” he says. “Everything will be fine.”

    In the garage, Mom fumbles with the key fob, then beeps the car awake. We sit inside, doors locked, garage open, waiting for my dad. She takes out her cell, dials.
    “Yes, this is Gloria Grant at 227 Hawthorne Lane. We’ve had a break-in.” Even in a panic, her tone is even, controlled. Only someone close to her might notice the slight waver.
    “I don’t know,” she says. “My husband is checking now.”
    I hear talking on the other end, then she turns to me, “Did you see anyone when you came home?”
    “No. I don’t think so.”
    “You don’t think so or you didn’t?” she asks.
    “I didn’t,” I say.
    “She says no. Yes, thank you.” She turns back to me. “They’re on their way.”
    When the police finally arrive, my dad has let us back inside, claiming the house is clear. The officers, young guys that look like they’re not much older than me, ask us to stand outside and wait while they check the house again, and dust for fingerprints.
    My heart stops as I watch them. The housecleaner was here yesterday afternoon, and I know she gave my room a good wipe-down, but what if they find Jackson’s fingerprints? He was here just yesterday. But my worries are warrantless. They find nothing. Even I haven’t been in there long enough to leave a mark.  
    And the only thing missing is my stash of money and NYU papers, which I can’t exactly tell them about. Soon we’re all huddled in the living room, Mom bringing us hot tea and coffee,