Page 67 of Bad Intentions

“Things happened. I messed up some of them. Now, Karen is one foot in the grave.” I gasp at the words. “What? She is, and you know it. We don’t want to make it worse. If you can keep your mouth shut and forget what happened tonight, I can fix this. I can fix this.”

She takes another drag of her cigarette, the ember burning between us, while I’m trying to think of how she can possibly fix a dead body. Resurrection?

“The one who shouldn’t be mixed up in this is Rika,” Mrs. Snickett says. “But she’s already in this mess. And she knows how to keep her mouth shut. If you can, too, then this night never happened.”

“What does that mean? How⁠—”

“It doesn’t matter how, what, and why. What matters is—can you keep your mouth shut and forget this ever happened?”

She tilts her head toward the trunk, her stare on me almost tangible.

And here come the thoughts about my family. My screwed-up family. I don’t know who’s doing this and why I’m the target. But maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s Grandma. I can’t do this to her. I can’t go to prison. At least not now. I could live with this, with this crime, at least until she’s gone, peacefully and not with another family member throwing her life away. The thought of covering this up is atrocious and petrifying. But my grandmother deserves peace. When she’s gone, if this secret is too much, I will give myself up.

“I can,” I whisper. “Yes.”

“I didn’t hear you,” Mrs. Snickett says.

“I can.”

“Can what?”

“I can keep quiet and forget that this happened,” I say, not sure what it means. “But how⁠—”

“Give me the car keys,” she orders, stretching her hand toward me.

I pass her the keys.

“Get back in the house.” She walks up to the driver’s door and stops to give the last instructions. “Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t pick up the phones unless it’s me. Don’t do anything stupid. Keep the lights low, curtains closed. I will be back.”

“When?”

“When I’m back. Understood?”

Without another word, she gets in my car. At this point, I don’t mind that her cigarette is still lit. Maybe that smoke can exorcise the horrible things that keep happening to me. Nothing can make this disappear, but Mrs. Snickett has a reputation for being someone who could arm-wrestle a devil.

“Come on, Boots.” Rika nudges me. “We need to lie low.”

I’ve never been to Mrs. Snickett’s house, but the interior is similar to my grandma’s. The house design, the old wallpaper, the hardwood floors. Except there’s taxidermy on the walls, a deer, several deer racks, a giant fish. Her kitchen smells of smoke. There’s an ashtray on the counter. A TV is playing upstairs.

“You didn’t tell me Donna Snickett is your grandmother,” I say to Rika as I take a seat at the kitchen table.

“You didn’t ask if I had any relatives in town,” Rika says dismissively, taking off her coat and hanging it on the rack, then motioning for mine.

“You could’ve mentioned it,” I say. “Knowing my family’s history.”

“For what? So that you could hate me the way your grams hated mine?”

“I-I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, stop it, Boots. This is not the time.” Her mood has changed. All humor is gone. “Do you want something to drink?”

As per rumors, Mrs. Snickett has an endless supply of Captain Morgan that will last into her afterlife. “What are you having?”

“Tea. I can make you tea, coffee, or juice.”

“Oh. No booze? I could use some.”

Rika doesn’t look at me as she puts a kettle on the stove. “What you could use is a clear head. We need to talk about this. Give me your phone.”