The Pretty Ones by Ania Ahlborn Page B

ride the dirty subway. Enduring the snide comments and judgmental looks. Dealing with that stupid bicycle gang. The least he could do was try to let her find some company beyond their shitty little apartment.
    â€œWhat about me?” she demanded. “What about what I want? What about who I look like?” There was a resemblance. Nell had inherited their mother’s mousy brown hair. If she dropped a few pounds, the thinness of her face would reflect Faye Sullivan’s sharp cheekbones and weak chin. “Will you kill me too?”
    Nothing.
    â€œBarrett.”
    He squared his shoulders at the sound of his name, but rather than glaring at her, he peered down at his feet. Despite his twenty-­four years, at that moment he looked like a little boy. That familiar pang of guilt crawled back into Nell’s guts. She was making him feel bad again, but she couldn’t just shrug and forget what he’d done. There would be other girls in Nell’s life now. She hadn’t thought it possible at the beginning of the day, but after Savannah’s invitation, she was quite sure of it. Soon, Nell would have another chance, which meant there would be other girls. If she didn’t put a stop to Barrett’s compulsion now, she wouldn’t stand a chance of doing it later.
    â€œBarrett, you have to promise me,” she said. “If you get caught, I’ll have no one.” She knew it was strange—insane, really—that she was more concerned about the police apprehending Barrett than him killing people. But maybe that was the whole problem. Maybe she was crazy, spending her days imagining doing terrible things to the girls who wronged her, who made her feel less than human. At least Barrett had the courage to do what Nell could only fantasize about. At least he had the strength to take action rather than spend his life as little more than a shadow. But that kind of courage was dangerous. He feared that she would become someone other than herself, and she worried that his valor would erase him from her life completely.
    â€œIf you do something bad and the police find out, if they take you away, what will I do?” she asked, her anger diluted by the worry that gnawed at every nerve.
    Barrett took a seat on the edge of his wingback chair, Robert Louis Stevenson lying between his feet, his small notepad overturned upon the floor.
    â€œHave you stopped to think that maybe they’ll come after me too? And even if they don’t, I can’t live alone. You know I can’t. What choice will I have but to try to find Mother? What choice will I have, Barrett, other than to go live with her again?”
    A muted moan escaped his lips. It was a cross between agony and anger, as though the mere thought of Nell living with that woman was tearing him up inside. Severing ventricles and veins. Twisting organs like tightropes.
    Nell abandoned her kitchen chair. A thin film of pink frosting still clung to the floorboard seams. She padded barefoot across the small expanse of their two-bit apartment. The boards, rough and crooked, impossible to clean completely, creaked beneath her feet. She sank to her knees at the foot of Barrett’s chair and laid her head next to his knee. “You see how bad it could become?” she whispered. “If I’m left alone, I may as well die.” She smiled to herself, feeling his fingers drift across the top of her head like a breeze. “And acting out of anger, out of jealousy . . .” He tensed at the word. “I know you’re jealous, Barrett. Don’t deny it.” He removed his hand from her head. “You’re worried,” Nell continued. “Worried that I’ll find someone else.”
    Barrett rocketed from the chair, pushing her away.
    No, he wasn’t jealous. Jealousy would have meant that he wanted to go out with Nell to restaurants and discos and God knew wherever else. But he didn’t want anything