“Why?” I ask when she doesn’t go on. But after another moment of quiet, I choose to take pity on my best friend androommate. “The crisis cut?” She used to skirt around saying things likecrisis cutwith me, but I figure the more I say the words, the more she’ll see I don’t mind. I crunch the bacon with a frown, but I’m not picky enough to care.
Years of eating in a mental institution in the Midwest will do that to a person.
Esme nods slowly, though her eyes search mine, as if she can read me as easily as I can her. “Yeah,” she admits carefully. “Yeah, I just…” She lets out a breath. “I’m sorry, Tova. I should’ve realized earlier when I got home. Not only that, but you’ve been, umm.” She taps her knuckles on the table, her burger and fries momentarily forgotten. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. And I’ll fix that,” she adds, gesturing to the hair on the right side of my head.
I just shrug.
“I’ve been having nightmares,” I admit finally, though I only do so once she’s back to eating. I have a feeling today was busy enough that she hadn’t eaten at work, so she needs this more than I do. “It happens. You know, I just get weird sometimes.” Shedoesknow, more than I ever planned on allowing her to, and I appreciate how Esme has never judged me for my problems.
Even though she probably should.
“You’ve been having nightmares,” she repeats, worry etching itself on her face. “Tova, fuck—I should’ve realized that we’re getting close to, umm. That time.”
Even though I only blink, a slideshow of images flashes across my closed eyelids, too fast to really make an impression, yet clear enough for me to recognize every single one.
The horses kept me up at night.
“You’re not my daughter.”
The cracked flashlight as blood ran down my face from the shattered glass.
You aren’t Sierra.
The lights flickered and surged as Dad lay in the tub, his body smelling like burned meat.
You’re. A. Monster.
A piece of too-crispy bacon breaks between my fingers, all but shattering as it hits the porcelain plate. My nose curls up in distaste, and I drop the other pieces before brushing off the crumbs. I’m not very hungry, and the images seared into my brain aren’t exactly helping. With a sigh, I pick up my fork to spear another bite of pancake soaked in butter, and jam it into my mouth as I consider my words. “Yeah,” I admit at last. “It’s getting close to, uh, that time of year and all. It does that.” I crack a dry smile at Esme, who looks away.
For all her acceptance, she can’t always hide that it unsettles her to know—even vaguely—what I did to my mother back then.
“Hey, your channel reported on that body found this morning,” I go on, changing the subject and wrangling another piece of soggy pancake onto my fork for consumption. “It’s the third one in the past three months, right? All on different trails in the Pacific Northwest?”
“How do you remember that?” Esme grumbles, but I just pin her with a look, and she glances away again. “You’re right. I’m not really asking. Uh, yeah, I heard about it at work.” I figured she did, since she does the makeup for the news anchors. I can’t imagine they have much more interesting topics of conversation to offer.
“The ‘source’ is some police officer Katie is fucking,” she goes on, rolling her eyes. “According to her, they’ve just ruled it an accident to keep people from making the connection. Though clearly that doesn’t work on a detective of your caliber.” She waves her fork at me and I incline my head as if to take credit for my talents. “The hikers have posted a couple of videos about it, too. They weren’t supposed to, but they took a video of the body. It’s going viral, and still up if you want to check it out.”
I’m already digging my phone out of my hoodie, and I navigate to my social media apps, figuring I know which one will have it. Sure enough, it only takes a little bit of creative searching and replacing certain letters in the bar for the video to pop up, mostly unedited.
“Yeah, that probably wasn’t an accident,” I murmur, setting down the phone on the cheap tabletop that’s already got a chip in it. I continue to eat my pancakes, not bothered at all by the video where the hiker husband shows the body up close, from the mouth slit in a grin and the eyes still open, gazing up toward the sky. I can hear the hiker choking, and then the phone spirals away, the treetops and clouds coming into focus as I hear him retch before it cuts off.
I rewind it to watch the few seconds of gore, analyzing, searching, and noting the details. There’s no real reason to do this, obviously. I’m just sating my curiosity and distracting myself from my problems.
I barely notice how clean the rope around the man’s bloody neck is, noting that he was definitely placed there post-mortem, before Esme slaps a hand over my phone, blocking my view, and prompting me to glance up at her in surprise.
“Stop watching that,” she huffs, swiping off of the app and turning over my phone. “Come on, don’t you think that’s morbid as hell? You’re already having a hard time. I won’t let you make it worse.”
“This won’t make it worse,” I assure her, gingerly removing her hand. I pick up the phone and slide it back into my pocket, then rest my head in my hands to gaze at her with a smile. “Shall we talk about something else?” I can’t imagine she has any other juicy details for me regarding the death that’s clearly a murder.
Especially since, by my count, it’s the third one in the region to be pretty similar. Though I can’t help but wonder if this body will join the others in the suspicion being whisperedabout bodies going missing once they’re discovered by innocent passersby.
Obviously, this one didn’t disappear. And the four others thathadn’tbeen recovered are, at best, an urban legend being spread around by people who have nothing better to do. It’s not worth bringing up.
Esme nods her head enthusiastically and shoves a ketchup-covered fry into her mouth. “Yes. God. Anything,please.This is not what I want to discuss while eating.”
Personally, I don’t know why it matters. But my lips curl into a sly smile and I tilt my head to the side. “Oh yeah? Then you want to tell me about the fight you had with Alan tonight?”
Esme’s glare is withering and almost unfriendly, and her only response is to flip me the finger before chomping into another fry.
