Thorn in My Side Read Free Page A

the moment they found out about last night.
    That poor woman. That poor, poor woman.
    “Red?” Kirk asked. He was standing in front of our tie rack. We always wore matching ties. It was my one concession to fashion.
    I shrugged.
    He gave a heavy sigh. “Wayne, there’s nothing we can do about it now. What’s done is done.”
    “I notice you didn’t turn on the television.”
    “I was trying not to freak you out.”
    “Freak,” I said. Not meaning him, just saying the word.
    Kirk’s throat bobbed, but that was his only acknowledgment. I stared at him in the mirror as he looped the red silk tie around his neck. I had a flash of last night: the blood, the screaming, the horror.
    What hath thou wrought?
    Not the Bible, but John Greenleaf Whittier. I wonder if they let you read poetry in prison.
    “Wayne?” Kirk’s tone implied a strained patience.
    My hand went up to pull the Windsor knot tight to his throat. He did the same for me, then clipped the tie to my part of our shirt so that it wouldn’t flop down like a hangman’s noose.
    Kirk said, “We’re not going to hang for this.”
    I chewed my lip. “The manhunt shouldn’t take long. ‘Last seen with conjoined twins.’ That’s a long list of suspects. They’re probably already preparing the search warrant.”
    “Stop it, Wayne. What do you want to do—call the police, tell them to come get me?”
    “That’s exactly what we should do.”
    “I’d like to see you try.”
    I glared at him. He glared back.
    I’d never won a staring contest with Kirk in my life. I looked back at the yard, the trees blurring. I cleared my throat. “What you did was wrong.”
    “What about what was done to me? You think I like living this way?” His voice caught. “I woulda been married by now. I woulda had kids. I’d probably be running IBM or something.”
    I hated when he talked like this. It broke my heart because I knew that I was the only thing that stood in his way.
    But still, what he’d done last night couldn’t be excused. You couldn’t take someone else’s life to pay for your own.
    I said, “They’ll go easier on you if you turn yourself in.”
    “You’ve been watching too many crime shows.”
    “What else am I supposed to do while you’re hanging out in all those chat rooms pretending to be a married father of three looking for some side action?”
    “It’s called a fantasy life, Wayne. Maybe if you had one, you’d understand.”
    “You have no idea what I fantasize about.”
    We exchanged a look. Both of us knew that was not exactly true. While we couldn’t technically read each other’s thoughts, there was an inexplicable connection that clued us each into what the other was thinking.
    Kirk finished his coffee. “Why are you always such a downer? You always think the worst thing is going to happen, and then—”
    “It does.” I tugged at my tie, feeling claustrophobic. The clock on the bedside table read 6:35. “Were going to be late for work.”

     
    We used to take turns driving to work, but then Kirk got his license revoked for excessive speeding. My brother may be graceful on the dance floor, but his foot is made of lead. Not only did he blast through a school zone, he almost hit a student. A little boy. A cop’s son. Kirk was damn lucky they hadn’t thrown him in jail. He should also be glad I hadn’t strangled him, because of course he tried to tell the judge that it was me, his little brother, who was speeding in front of the Amish Friends School. Thank God the crossing guard’s testimony vindicated me.
    “He had his arm waving out the sunroof,” she said, nodding toward Kirk. “I seen him screaming at the kids to get the hell outta his way.”
    “I was only trying to save them.” Kirk eyed me as if I’d been the one who was hell-bent on taking out a bunch of grade-schoolers.
    “Then why,” the crossing guard countered, “were you callin’ ’em all little bastards and sayin’ you was gonna mow ’em