The Last Victim by Kevin O'Brien Page A

recommend you get a crush on a guy who likes girls.”
    But Bridget didn’t want to hear it. David barely knew she was alive, but she worshiped him. On a Friday morning in mid-October, when both their parents were out of town, Brad mentioned to Bridget that David Ahern was coming over to the house for pizza and a movie. And no, Brad didn’t mind if she wanted to join them. The Corrigans had a VCR, and David wanted to rent On the Waterfront . Bridget was ecstatic. She spent the afternoon in the library looking up On the Waterfront , so she could make all these intelligent statements about the movie: “Did you know that this picture won eight Oscars? This was Eva Marie Saint’s first movie. Did you know that it was shot in Hoboken, New Jersey? Have you ever been to New Jersey, David?”
    She spent over an hour picking out just the right clothes for a “casual” look. Bridget rarely wore makeup, but she made an exception that night. It was while she was gingerly applying her mascara that she noticed a note to herself—taped to the bottom of her dressing table mirror: Babysit—The Shieldses @ 8, Fri, 10/19.
    “Oh, crap!” she groaned. “No, no, no!”
    Bridget tried calling Mrs. Shields to cancel, but the line was busy. She tried several times—right up until a quarter to eight. But she kept getting the damn busy signal. Bridget waited around as long as she could, but David didn’t show up. She didn’t even get to say hello to him and let him see how cute she looked.
    Bridget walked the six blocks to the Shieldses’ house, where she would be looking cute for nine-year-old Andy Shields. His toddler sister, Danielle, was probably already asleep. Danielle’s bedtime was eight o’clock. So basically, Bridget’s job would be keeping Andy entertained for the next few hours.
    She hoped and prayed something would happen to get her out of babysitting for that little brat tonight.
    Actually, she wasn’t being fair to Andy. He was a cute, skinny kid with red hair and a goofy face. He wore these ugly madras shirts all the time. And he loved his green Converse All-Star high-tops. Bridget often teased him that he “dressed like a dork.” Still, he was sweet and easy to get along with. He liked to draw and had given Bridget a pencil sketch he’d done of her. It was awful, but she’d kept it anyway. Tonight, they would probably watch TV and play Monopoly. He was big into Monopoly too. She would send him to bed at eleven.
    Later, Mr. Shields would drive her home, and she would probably miss David again. Damn it. Why couldn’t she get a break? Was it too much to hope that she’d get to the Shieldses’ house and find nobody home?
    Instead, as she turned down the block and approached the Shieldses’ small brick Tudor, Bridget noticed all the lights were on inside. And outside, a police car was parked in their driveway.
    The front door had been left open, and as Bridget came closer to the house, she could see Mr. and Mrs. Shields through the screen door—in the living room. Mrs. Shields, a thin woman with short, wavy red hair, was sitting on the sofa, quietly talking with a policeman. Mr. Shields paced back and forth while he spoke into a cordless phone. “Yes, well, thank you,” he was saying—a bit loudly. “And please . . . please, call us if you hear anything. . . .”
    Bridget always thought he was handsome in a bookish way— bookish because of his glasses. He was an accountant. He must not have changed his clothes since coming home from work. He wore a blue suit, and his tie was loosened.
    “And listen,” he said into the cordless phone, “if you can’t get through to us, just leave a message with the police, okay? Thanks a lot.”
    Bridget hesitated before knocking on the side of the screen door. Spotting her, Mr. Shields suddenly stopped pacing. She nodded and gave a tentative little wave to him on the other side of the screen. “Hi, Mr. Shields,” she said nervously. “It’s me, Bridget.