Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

the room, my arm pulled back, and Dylan flinched as though he thought I might hit him. I didn’t. Instead, I swatted the blocks aside, watched them scatter across the floor. A couple of the pieces flew toward the easel and landed at Royce’s feet. He stared at me in utter shock. Rebecca whirled and stared at me. But I ignored her and looked right at Dylan.
    “You knocked down my galley,” he said, his lower lip starting to quiver.
    “Yeah, well, fuck you and your goddamn galley.”
    I was about to say more when Rebecca stomped over, kicking aside one of the fallen blocks. “Eddie, get your stuff and go.” That was all she said, that I was fired.
    When I got down to the lobby, I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face and then ducked into a stall, where I tried to throw up. But I couldn’t. I was angry and confused. I went through it all, trying to imagine what I should have done differently, but I knew that things had had to end like this. Dylan had made sure of it.
    I sat in the stall for an hour, maybe more, and tried to calm myself down. Dylan was dangerous. He was sick, truly sick. At least I wouldn’t have to see him again, but what about Britta? What if he tried to hurt her to get back at me? Or one of the kids I really cared about, like Amber?
    I couldn’t allow that. I wouldn’t.
    I slipped out of the bathroom, but instead of going for the exit, I ducked into the shadows of the sprawling lobby. Behind me, the basement door had been propped open and I stepped inside the stairwell and peered out from there. I heard the murmur of restless adults waiting for the elevators to come down. Through the faint noise, I soon heard the voices of eager campers, including some of mine: Amber and Michael, Royce and Cory.
    I stepped out from the shadows and saw Britta leaning wearily on the baby stroller and talking to Rebecca. I wanted to wait for Rebecca to go away so that I could explain to Britta what had really happened with Dylan. I felt sure that she would understand.
    In the stroller, Dylan’s sister opened her mouth in a wide O and began to wail. Britta fumbled around in the stroller, opening and closing zippers, muttering. Finally, she found a bottle and stuffed it in the baby’s mouth.
    “Let’s go,” Dylan said, tugging at Britta’s hand. “I want an ice.”
    “Just one minute,” she said, turning back to Rebecca.
    Dylan began to push his sister’s stroller in circles around the lobby. Britta watched casually, listening to Rebecca, nodding. I wondered what kind of lies my former boss was telling her. Would Britta even want to go out with me after what she’d heard?
    Dylan wheeled closer to me. It was almost as if he knew I was there. But no, he must not have, because he jumped when I put a hand on his shoulder.
    “You think you’re so smart, don’t you, you little shit.”
    Dylan was as solemn and obedient as if he were standing in a church pew.
    “I am smart,” he said.
    “Not as smart as me.”
    I hadn’t thought about what I would do next, not really. It just happened. I grabbed the stroller from Dylan and started walking, looking down at the baby cocooned inside, sucking on her bottle, swinging her tiny fists, Dylan must have looked like that once too, I thought, so helpless and small. No one ever would’ve suspected what he would someday become.
    “Where we going?” Dylan asked in surprise as I wheeled the stroller through the basement door.
    “You’re going away, my little friend,” I said, and then the baby dropped her bottle. It rolled into the corner of the stairwell and she started to scream, but only for a moment. I had no choice but to act, so I did. I pushed. The whole thing took maybe three or four seconds and then the baby was quiet, the sound of Dylan’s tears filling the void.
    I don’t know what happened next. I was already gone, out the service door, then walking calmly down the sidewalk. But I imagine that Britta and Rebecca ran over, and so did everyone else who was there, and they all covered their mouths in horror. I see the baby lying at the bottom of the basement stairs, covered in blood, head cracked open like a coconut. Dylan must’ve stared down at her in disbelief as Britta shook him by the front of his shirt and said,
Why did you do this?
    No, it was him.
    It was who?
Rebecca would have asked.
    Eddie did it. Eddie, not me! He pushed her, he hates me, he did it!
But as everyone knew, I had left camp at least an hour earlier. The