CHAPTER 22
Emmett waited for his pickup order at Cotija’s with his eyes on his phone, happily working through the new comments his recent post had racked up. He acknowledged each of them with a like and a reply, but it was getting harder to find something new to say each time. There were so many, dozens, mostly from strangers. Their abundance, and the strength of their support, overwhelmed him.
He’d been so overcome to hit one thousand followers a few days before that he’d posted an effusive, teary-eyed thank-you to his stories. A troll had responded in his DMs, telling him to “quit overreacting, 1K isn’t even that much” and “you got a ways to go before you can tag your posts #WeightLossInspo.” Emmett blocked them and deleted his story at once. But apart from the occasional rude comment, the online response was life-affirming. The encouragement and congratulations—even the damn fire emojis—frequently reduced him to tears, nourishing his soul in a way that made him realize just how much it had hungered for kindness.
Part of him felt guilty that he hadn’t achieved his weight loss naturally, the Obexity his shameful little secret. But surely that was just his social conditioning. The point of losing weight was to be healthier, happier, not to starve or kill himself doing backbreaking exercise. If he had cancer and a new treatment had cured him overnight, he wouldn’t feel anything but relieved and grateful. Why should this be any different?
An influx of customers drew Emmett’s gaze up from his phone. His eyes caught on a TV mounted in the corner. The midday news was muted, but he recognized the face on the screen at once: the stiff mane of honey-blond hair, the protuberant eyes. It was the Future Makers woman who’d interviewed him months before.
The chyron read,LOCAL WOMAN MISSING SINCE FRIDAY.
Missing? But Emmett had seen her, hadn’t he? Through the open doorway, deep in conversation with a colleague, while Emmett wasleading SAT prep. He remembered thinking how rude and disruptive it was. He still resented her for all the shit she’d said in his interview.
He remembered an intense surge of anger, of wanting to hurt her like she’d hurt him…
Then waking up the next morning.
His hands covered in blood.
The guy behind the counter called Emmett’s order number, but he wanted to leave the food and run. He felt unsafe in the presence of the woman’s headshot, as if it might come alive and accuse him of a crime that only she could remember.
Appendix O—Interview Transcript
FD:I’m Frank Darrow, and it’s 5:36 p.m. on November 16, 2024. I’m on the phone with Chris Truesdale—sorry, oughta let you do this part. Would you state your name, age, and occupation for me?
CT:Chris [inaudible]. Thirty-nine [inaudible]… commercial real estate.
FD:And your relationship to the participant?
CT:[Inaudible] brother.
FD:Hey, Chris, there’s a bit of background noise coming through. I wonder if you might be able to—
CT:Hold on… Will you watch them? Just watch them, please, Jayla, fuck. [Munch’s Make Believe Band playing “Shake Your Groove Thing.” Arcade game sounds. A child screaming.] All right, I’m outside. Can you hear me now?
FD:Much better. Sorry about all this when you’re trying to enjoy your Saturday. Sounds like I might’ve caught you at a bad time.
CT:Chuck E. Cheese. Five-year-old’s birthday party.
FD:The joys of parenthood, huh?
CT:Put a gun in my mouth.
FD:Okay. Well, I won’t take up too much time. As I mentioned in my email, my firm’s been hired to investigate what happened with your brother—
CT:Half brother.
FD:Half brother, excuse me.
CT:What do you want to know?
FD:That’s what your sister said. Your half sister, I mean. I met with her the other day and she took me through Emmett’s childhood, some of the issues he had with his weight and his stepdad. She made it sound like Emmett was a pretty sweet, sensitive kid. Nothing in his past that might suggest he wason a path to murder. I assume you’re gonna tell me the same thing.
CT:I don’t know about murder, but sweet?
FD:You disagree?
CT:I didn’t know him growing up like Abby did—they were at their mom’s most of the time—but when I was with him, he could be a little brat. Every time I said one word to him he went running to Dad, trying to get me in trouble. Saying I hit him when I barely touched him. He was so sensitive, he thought everything was an attack.
