If I could hold Blesk’s hand, that might help. Thread my fingers through hers, feel her palm pressed against mine… But I don’t want Elise to feel like a third wheel, so my denim pockets will suffice. It’s beautiful on campus at this time of night, shadowed and scenic. It’s how I imagine campuses look in Oxford or London, though I’ve never been to one.
“I realise that perhaps I like walking more than normal people do.” I cringe, just realising I should have ordered an Uber. “Not everyone walks everywhere.”
It’s become a habit. The alcoholic man’s habit.Walk it off, Slater.Very much a part of the experience.
Fuck.
“I do,” Blesk says politely.
“I don’t mind walking,” Elise agrees.
“Well, perfect. Next time, though. Snacks and a chauffeur. You have my word.”
The girls are chatting about classes and their new coffee spot for the twenty minutes it takes to get to the museum. I listen and note that Blesk loves coffee and a fruit salad for breakfast, and Elise fasts until lunch because she heard the monks in Tibet do it.
I chuckle.
She’s great.
We approach the museum, and instantly I know something is wrong. The glass front is underlit; the window displays look like bones on an X-ray.
I frown.
As we buy tickets and head inside, I realise the exhibit has changed. Last quarter they had a sports theme, but as I gaze around, I get a very different vibe. The exhibitions rotate. A monthago, the lobby was brightly lit, and the floor tiles had holographic grass; every time I stepped the grass under my foot would crunch and crush as if real. I’d pictured Blesk’s face when she saw that—the way her eyes might go wide, the little laugh she might make, stepping on it over and over again.
Well, fuck.I look around at the ribcages. The red and bruised-coloured lighting. This time, most of the lobby is in shadow, but every few steps a spotlight appears on the floor, flashing a body part. Ribcage. Blood. Skull.
Not what I had in mind.
Crime. That is the theme.
There are other people around us, moving through the corridors, but they are quiet, so we hear every light footstep, and the sound of something mechanical, yet human, like artificial gasping and gurgling.
What the fuck?
Could I be more romantic?I touch Blesk’s arm. “Should we go somewhere el?—”
“Cool!” Elise drawls, already drifting further inside.
Else,I finish in my head.
Blesk hangs back, her shoulder brushing mine. “Creepy,” she whispers to me, but smiles. “What exactly was the inspiration behind this date, Mr Slater?”
I’m stuck on how to rationalise this one. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Elise points at a warning sign with real bullet holes in it. “This is where you take a girl on a first date? Was dinner and a movie taken?”
I have to laugh. “It wasn’t like this the last time I came here.” We wander into a room decorated like a 1920s saloon, with black and white pictures and police tape. “Give me a break, Elise. I was trying to make an impression. Be cultured and shit. There is a great restaurant on the other side, and it was asports exhibition last month. I was going to show off and talk about rugby.”
She lifts her brow. “Oh, you’re making an impression.”
I laugh again—at this point that is all I can do—but the sound nearly chokes me as I read the plaque on this section of the exhibition: The District.
Well, fuck.
The girls drift through the space, fascinated, their eyes on the black and white photos, pointing and whispering to each other. I move to the other side of the room while reading. Missing persons. 1970. Bodies found. Names. Dates. None of which mean anything to anyone else in this room.
The girls are over there. I am over here, so they don’t see the news article. The one on the wall from eleven years ago, featuring the most famous missing person in the state. District royalty. Of all the fucking exhibits. Of all the nights.
