“They’re going to get you,” Emily sang the rhyme her father taught her, her voice frail and lilting, “Shadow shall we confide, no matter where I hide, all that's false has turned true.”
“They’re going to get you,” Emily sang and waltzed around the room to the bed; stopping to bow a curtsy to the audience of two. “This is a nice dress, but a bit to small for me." She pulled the dress off and let it fall to the floor.
She snatched a teddy bear and handed it to the sister then cycled the bolt on her pistol. Emily turned, pausing, and pulled a wrinkled photograph from her pocket. “You look so much like her," her voice trailed off.
The little girl clutched her bear, “Please.”
Emily took it from her and held it in front of her face.
“Please,” the girl muttered through the stuffed toy.
Emily fired, ending the girl and turned to the brother, “I really didn’t want to do this, you know. Not all of you guys, just her. But they would have killed you anyways,” she said, and put the barrel to his temple. “They’re already here don’t ya’ know!”
“I, uh—”
Bang.
Matthew drew the bow across his violin, chewing on an unlit cigarette. Mulling over his thoughts he played a minor scale, notes lost in the afternoon of a suburb.
The screen door kicked open, and a beaming Emily ran out, weapon in hand, “The work's all done daddy!"