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Serena: I will check in.
Serena: If I don’t, assume I’ve been emotionally compromised.
Calla: OR MURDERED
Serena: Much less likely.
Lila: We love you even when you’re avoidant.
Calla: SAY IT SAY YOU LOVE US TOO
Serena: I trust you to extrapolate.
2
TAPHONOMIC VARIABLES
SERENA
“On the bright side,” Tamsin stares out at the passing scenery, “this appears to be a greatest-hits tour of everything you’ve spent the last fifteen or so years avoiding.”
Sunlight flickers through the trees and across her face, catching on one high cheekbone and the small gold cuffs threaded through her braids. She has them piled high on her head today, though a few have worked loose over the course of the drive and now fall over one shoulder.
Tamsin is beautiful, which is a purely factual observation and one she is already sufficiently aware of. Deep brown skin, dark eyes framed by naturally long lashes I’ve coveted for years, and a face expressive enough that I’ve learned most of its configurations by now. The slight narrowing of her eyes means she’s assessing. One raised brow means she’s waiting for a reaction. Both mean she already knows what it will be.
Currently, I’m getting one.
Her nails tap softly against her knee, perfectly manicured despite belonging to the same hands I’ve watched spend six hours piecing together fragments of a human skull with painstaking precision.
“How is that the bright side?” I keep my eyes on the road, sigh. “We are not doing this. I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh, we absolutely are. It’s the most entertaining way to pass the time.” She holds up a finger and begins counting. “Let’s see. There’s your mother, who treats boundaries as a personal challenge. There’s the unresolved case everyone pretends not to talk about but absolutely does, and you’re about to be right in the middle of it. And—oh, yes—your ex. Can’t forget him.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
I stare straight ahead and make a mental note that Tamsin will be traveling via rideshare next time.
I breathe in and remind myself that I am an adult with a cool job, something resembling financial stability (regardless of what my mother thinks), a great sex life that exists mostly in theory—I prefer doing most things solo, so it’s fine—and the very real ability to leave Stillwater whenever the fuck I want.
None of that helps. Going home has a way of shrinking all of that down to nothing. I can already feel myself regressing into a version of myself that’s constantly braced for commentary and unsolicited updates on people I did not ask about.
Especially Evan.
The fact that my ex has been introduced this early in the drive feels like a bad omen.
“The one who still messages you when he’s drunk,” she continues, “despite the fact you broke up before smartphones were even invented.”
I side eye her. “We were young, not prehistoric. And Evan just,” I gesture vaguely, “checks in. We’re still friends.”
“He resurfaces,” she corrects. “Like mold. Or an old god. Honestly, I don’t know how he doesn’t feel stupid at this point.”
I don’t know why I try to make it seem like anything other than what it is. She’s totally right. “He's a man, Tam. They never feel stupid, they just are.”
We were kids when we broke up. Not legally, but emotionally. He was sweet in a way that suggested he thought adulthood would arrive with instructions, and deeply confused when it didn’t. I didn’t leave because he did anything wrong. I just kept growing, and he stayed exactly where I left him, still earnest, still well-meaning, still reaching out every few months to see if I’ve started dating anyone seriously, as if that information might unlock a secret ending. I’m fond of him in the way you’re fond of someone who once mattered and now mostly serves as proof that you’ve lived a life.
“And this,” Tamsin taps the dashboard, “is before we even get to the bit where the town itself is your personal hell.”
“I asked you to come for moral support.”
