It takes an effort to open the minifridge door with the sleeve of her shirt. Once she tugs it open, she sees a flimsy shoebox that contains small white tubes that look, at first, like Styrofoam. She leans closer. No, not foam. They seem to be…bones. Tiny animal bones. There are dozens of them. What the hell are they? Birds? Rats?
“Guys.” The urgent whisper comes from a distant room. Joey jumps. She kicks the fridge closed and hurries from the kitchen.
She passes through the living room. An old floral couch is faded and torn. Yellow stuffing herniates out the middle.
“Oh, good,” says Sophie as Joey and Elena come down the hall. “Just wanted to make sure you didn’t leave me here.”
There is no door on the hinges of what appears to be Tom’s room. Inside, there’s a mattress in the corner with a blanket on top of it and a ratty pillow. Next to the makeshift bed is a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a small collection of empty beer bottles.
Sophie picks up something that looks like an old DVD. She finds a remote and clicks on the small TV. It reminds Joey of the TV that used to sit in the corner of Quinn’s room, on top of her bookshelf.
Joey can’t help but wonder what Tom would do if he came home now. If he saw them in his room. Looking through his things.
Behind her, Sophie yelps. “Oh my god, how do I turn it off?”
Joey turns. It’s hard to tell what is happening, but the screen is showing lots of skin and black leather, and then a loud moan reverberates around the room.
“Turn it off,” shouts Elena, over the din.
“I’m trying.” Sophie fumbles with the buttons and drops the remote. When she takes a step toward it, she accidentally kicks it, and it goes sliding across the room.
Elena puts her head in her hands, and Joey goes after the remote. She has to crawl under the TV stand. She reaches, wondering when the last time this floor was cleaned. Finally, her fingers find it. She stands and jabs at the power button. The TV snaps off in a staticky click, and they’re left in the silent aftermath.
Sophie rushes out of the room.
“So he’s into bondage porn,” Elena says, following. “That’s a choice.”
Joey rubs her arms. She takes a few steps out of the room and stops at the end of the hallway, before a closed door. Fearing the worst, she turns the handle and nudges it open. An involuntary sharp breath fillsher lungs. The floor is so clean, it shines. The hardwood, preserved in this way, looks like it belongs in another house altogether. She uses her hip to push her way in, and that’s when she sees it.
A photo resting in a gold-plated frame. A photo of Quinn.
Her hair is tinged green at the tips and in streaks around her face, and she’s smiling a broad smile that makes Joey’s chest flood with sudden, unexpected sadness. Of all the pictures she has ever seen of Quinn, she has never seen this one. It seems to perfectly capture her essence. A few steps inside the room reveal more photographs, all framed, resting on a polished oak table. Every image is of Quinn. Quinn running. Quinn eating ice cream. Quinn as a little girl, grumpily hugging a stuffed bunny. Scattered around are candles melted down to various heights, there’s a rosary, and what she recognizes as tiny animal bones, arranged like offerings. Then, she sees a piece of dirty string. Only, on closer inspection, it’s not a string. It’s a shoelace. Mud-stained and stiff, as if it hasn’t been touched for years. Next to it is a floppy stuffed bunny with fur that might have once been soft but is now matted and rough. It’s the bunny from the photo of Quinn as a girl, only it’s missing an eye, and stuffing protrudes grotesquely out of its ear.
There is nothing else in this room. No chair. No bed. Importantly, no book. Only the table and two black curtains, parted down the middle, allowing a slice of dying daylight into the room.
“I was not anticipating a shrine,” Sophie says quietly from behind her. She brushes past and lifts a photograph of Quinn. The frame is delicate, covered in curled gray aspen bark. Gently, she replaces the photograph and spots the bones. “Are those—” But she doesn’t finish the thought. Instead, she rubs her hands over her eyes. “This is heartbreaking.”
“Heartbreaking?” Elena stands next to them now. She pokes a finger into the bunny’s missing eye and makes a disgusted sound. “This issome serious serial killer shit. What’s with the candles and the rosary? Is he religious?”
Sophie picks up a small laminated card and shows it to them. On the front is a picture of a horned satanic beast.
“Not discerning about his worship then,” Elena says.
As Sophie replaces the card, Joey notices a lumpy bit of clothing, faded pink, just behind the stuffed bunny. It’s soft between her fingers as she picks it up. Thin. It’s not immediately recognizable, but when she unfolds it, her pulse pounds. Quinn’s pink hoodie. Her favorite pink hoodie—the one she was wearing beneath the raincoat the day they found her body. Opening it up, she sees that the front side is completely discolored. A deep brown, nearly black, stain covers almost the entire thing. She lays it on the floor, and as she does, Sophie and Elena peer over her shoulder. Joey kneels, frantically scanning the entire thing. Her focus snags on a little rip in the fabric, just to the right of the zipper. She uses two fingers to gently peel the rip open. It’s two to three inches across, like someone stabbed a blade through it.
“Oh my god,” says Sophie breathlessly.
Joey notices more of the little rips all over the front of the sweatshirt. There are six, no, seven of them. Her fingers are pulsing with her heartbeat. She can barely hear anything.
Elena kneels next to Joey. “I’m going to take a risk and say that’s not coffee spilled on the front?”
“Right,” says Sophie. “I think I’m ready to leave now.”
“We should take it with us,” says Joey. “Find out if it’s Quinn’s blood.”
“Absolutely not.” Elena extends her arm, blocking Joey from grabbing it.
“Why not?”We should take the evidence, Joey thinks,prove that it’s a match with Quinn. She knows it will be.
