LOST BOY Page 3

  Flash.

  Flash.

  Flash.

  The rain threatens to drown me. I’m slipping under, into my memories.

  My fingers seek out the scars to bring me back to the now. “Move the tape farther back,” a man barks, stepping out of a black sedan, a red light flashing on the grill of his car. He’s dressed in a suit and long raincoat, salt and pepper hair soaking to his scalp, a frown tugging at his brow. “Move these fucking people back and get a tent over the body,” he booms, waving his hands frantically.

  Over the body?

  The body?

  My hands begin to shake. Clenching them into fists, I shove them into the pocket of my jacket. A crowd has gathered, concerned whispers floating on the wind. Faces with creased foreheads peer beyond the police line, trying to get a better look. It’s human nature, morbid curiosity to want to see what’s happened. The brain wants to evaluate the situation from the safety of the police tape.

  The rain drowns my body, running down my face, wiping any attempt to look presentable away, leaving the fucked-up mess of a girl I am on the inside bare for all to see. My feet move without permission, pushing toward the front of the crowd, not stopping until my stomach makes contact with police tape.

  My eyes devour the scene, flicking to every inch of the blocked off area. Rain hammers the asphalt. Rubbish blows across the street from an overturned trashcan. What happened?

  “This is a crime scene. I’m going to have to ask you all to move back at least fifteen feet,” a police officer yells out, waving his hands to get his point across, but my legs are frozen, my eyes drifting to just behind him, a female’s legs showing from behind a dumpster. They’re bare with bruises dark enough to see from this distance.

  “Don’t look.”

  “What happened?” I croak out. My head spins, making me sway on my feet. My eyes can’t look away from the body.

  Red polished toenails stand out in contrast to her pale skin. Contusions and discoloration running up her legs scream of angry, cruel punishment. Who is she?

  “I can’t answer that, ma’am. I need to ask you to step back.” His tone leaves no room for argument. Had I asked that out loud? I back away a few yards to the new perimeter another officer is making. The clouds above swim through the sky, leaving the streets cast in a gray hue.

  “Awful. She’s just a young girl,” a woman weeps, gaining the attention of everyone close enough to hear her. They huddle under umbrellas, herded together like farm animals.

  “Did you see what happened?” another asks. I move closer to them, straining to hear the gossip, shame seeping into me. She’s a person—not a spectacle for us all to gawk at and talk about.

  “I got here just before the police. Some guy found her and called them. She was naked and had cuts all over her. She must have been there through the night.”

  She sniffles, her head bowing. The trauma of what she witnessed will stay with her forever—a mark on her soul.

  “Keep your eyes closed, sweetheart.”

  “Who would do something like that?”

  Sickness coils in my gut.

  “He’s killed both women.”

  Memories of those tormented pleas and flashing lights illuminating my house as a child crash over me. My nails dig into the palms of my hands, causing a grounding sting.

  “The rain will wash away the evidence. They’re taking too long to get the tent over her,” I rasp out.

  “Got to be a domestic, right? Or an accident?” an older woman says. She wraps her jacket tight around her body, as if it can protect her from the horrors laid bare before her.

  “It was no accident,” the first woman chokes.

  “We will know soon enough with those awful people taking photos of the poor girl. The police will have to make a statement.”

  Anger and pain slice into me at the thought of people taking photos at a time like this—vultures standing in line to pick away at the carcass.

  “Let’s hope it’s not another Hollywell situation. It’s only an hour from here,” the older woman warns. My body jerks at her words, making my feet stumble and foot slip from the curb. I crash to the ground, taking out the police tape as I do.

  The impact makes me cry out more in shock than pain. The knowledge of everything that happened in Hollywell creaks and groans from the dark corners of my mind where I keep it tightly locked away.

  Rape.

  Murder.

  Serial Killer.

  Willis Langford.

  Willis Langford

  Willis Langford

  Flash.

  Flash.

  Flash.

  Damp dirt seeps into my clothes. Embarrassment burns my cheeks as I fumble, trying to stand. “You okay, ma’am?” an officer asks as I’m helped to my feet by multiple hands.

  “Fine…” I squeak out, brushing down my clothes and ducking my head.

  It’s as if the horrors of my dreams have spilled free onto the street before me. “Hide and don’t come out.”

  My heart hammers, seeking freedom, peace—something I’ll never get. After my dream, that woman mentioning Hollywell feels too surreal. That fear is an entity that accompanies me through life. “Are you sure you’re okay?” the officer asks again. I hate the attention.

  “I’m fine,” I snap, louder, more confident, yet I can’t gasp air quick enough.

  Dipping my head, I move away from the scene and slip into an alleyway. I lean against the wall, a hand to my chest, gasping for breath.

  I’ve seen enough. Too much. I need to get away from here.

  Three

  My mother always used to say even in the darkest of places, flowers still grow. When I’m on the cusp of being swallowed by the darkness taunting my mind, I cling to her words, praying there’s a seed somewhere inside me that will flourish in the shadows, a beacon of hope. I replay her words, allowing the calm to wash over me. Air fills my lungs, and the pounding of my heart slows.

  The winter rain pounds me with her punishing fist, the air making my lungs frigid with each inhale of breath. A nervous hum vibrates at the back of my eyes, causing a nauseating pulse through my head.

  There’s been death in our town before, but nothing like this, nothing so brutal.

  I take off walking, picking up my pace as my muscles uncoil. Blowing on my hands, I rub them together to alleviate the burning. I hear the patter of Bruno’s paws as I approach the crossing. Like clockwork, his owner appears around the bend, lead in hand. Smoke pours from her lips as she huddles beneath a heavy raincoat, puffing on a vape. “Morning,” she grunts, barely lifting her head.

  Three days a week, we pass each other, and that’s as far as our conversation has gone, but seeing her walking her overweight dog offers me a semblance of comfort.

  Normalcy.

  She has no idea what awaits her further down the road.

  Will she stop? Want to see? Curiosity is wired in our DNA.

  I pull my jacket sleeve over my hand to press the button at the crossing, cringing at the thought of how many dirty fingers have been all over it.

  There’s zero traffic on this road this time in the morning, but I wait for the lights to change anyway. A news article comes to mind. A woman who wasn’t paying attention at a train crossing—she imploded like a water balloon being dropped from a skyscraper when it hit her.

  Splat!

  I wonder if she felt the impact. Did her life have time to flash before her eyes before she became mulch? Probably not.

  Did people stop to witness the aftermath of her error? More than likely, yes.

  The lights signal for me to cross, and the noise makes me jump despite me expecting it. I want to run home, curl up in my bed, and let my secrets soak onto the pillow, giving me some peace. My mind feels like a disease at times, slowly killing me from within.

  The heavens mock me as the skies crackle and boom, the rain turning to icy pebbles. I race across campus, ignoring the cold seeping into my skin.

  Pushing thro
ugh the main entrance, I shake off the frost balls clinging to my hair. The halls aren’t vibrating with their usual bustle. It’s eerily quiet. The clinking of the hail hitting the windows amplifies the chilling energy. People group into clusters, their hushed whispers bringing a sullen density. It’s like looking at a haunted painting.

  “What’s going on?” I ask the closest person to me. Our campus-like, our town was small, news traveled fast. There’s no way this can be about the body—the girl. The police just got there.

  He doesn’t even turn to look at me when he mumbles, “A girl who went here got murdered.”

  Goosebumps surge up my spine, turning my legs to lead. News travels fast.

  “How?” I ask, gaining his full attention.

  He turns to me, his brow dipping, “How what?”

  “How was she murdered?” I want to inhale the words back into my mouth when his face scrunches up.

  “Morbid much?” he accuses.

  Am I morbid? Shrugging my shoulders, I shake my head slightly. “Just curious,” I say, but my skin feels like I’ve been swimming in oil. Should I be more affected?

  She’s not the first dead body I’ve seen.

  Crimson stains. Eyes open and vacant. Mama…

  Sliding his backpack up his shoulder, he retorts, “They haven’t said yet, but it’s looking like a big deal, so I’m guessing it wasn’t pretty.” He tilts his head as he studies me. “You look familiar. Do we have a class together?”

  “No,” I mumble, moving past him.

  I’m only five minutes late when I finally push through the door of my cognitive psych class. All attention shifts to me as I enter. Dropping my bag beneath the desk and pulling out my notepad, I take a seat. A puddle forms beneath me. I’m a drenched rat, pitiful.

  Stephan drops into his seat to my right, and I startle. “Why are you filthy and soaking wet?” He swipes at my thigh, thick with black dirt. I try not to flinch from his touch, but my body stiffens.

  “I fell. Don’t ask.” I flick through the pages on my notebook to keep my hands busy, scribbling Marco over and over.

  “You want my sweater?” he offers, pulling it over his head and placing it on the table in front of me. His T-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of a tattoo. It takes me by surprise. I wouldn’t have pegged Stephan to be the type to have tattoos.

  “You’re one of the good ones. You know that, right?” I tell him, a tired smile hooking the corner of my mouth. It feels unnatural, forced.

  “Don’t tell people. I have a reputation to uphold.” He winks.

  I hate myself for it, but I hold the wink against him.

  Tugging off my jacket, I pull his sweater over my head and sigh. The fabric is still warm from his body. My skin is so cold, I can barely coordinate my limbs. I dump my bag on the chair next to me. Usually, Abigail sits there, poised and professional, agreeing with every person and their views on whatever topic we’re discussing. She doesn’t even notice that she contradicts herself by agreeing with all points. My phone vibrates across the table, drawing attention.

  “Sorry,” I mime, holding it up. Guilty.

  Charlotte: Just heard a girl from your campus got murdered!

  Before I can click off the screen, a photo comes through, blindsiding me. Acid burns my stomach, racing up the throat. It’s different seeing her as a whole and not just legs. Pale, damp skin. Angry welted puncture wounds over her torso, breasts, neck. This poor girl suffered. This was rage. A frost settles over my chest as I stare at the image. Wet strands of hair lay splayed over her face.

  Thud.

  I know that face. I recognize it instantly. Brown hair. Full lips. Delicate features. It’s Abigail. My stomach dips, and the phone almost slips from my grip.

  “Liz?” Stephan cups my face, his large palm warm. It should be comforting. But I feel nothing. I’m numb. “What is it?” He frowns, dropping his hand.

  “It was Abigail,” I choke out, looking up at him. He’s beautiful. Light brown hair lays neatly over his head. Baby blues like the Caribbean peer down at me.

  “Someone killed Abigail.” I blink. He doesn’t look shocked. This isn’t news to him.

  “It’s probably an accident. Nothing happens here, so people get over-excited when something does,” he says to appease me, squeezing my shoulder.

  This was no accident. “Did you see the picture my roommate sent me?” I screech, hysteria tingeing my tone.

  A grimace mars his features. “It’s circulating the internet, Liz. A picture of her body. It was sent to everyone.”

  My insides clench. “Why would people do that?” Everyone in the room gawks at me like I’m freaking crazy.

  “Calm down. Grab your stuff. Let’s get out of here. You look like you’re getting hyperthermia.”

  I send a scathing glare to the eyes still on me. “What the hell are you looking at?”

  “Ms. West,” our Professor admonishes—like I’m the one in the wrong. Snatching my bag to my chest, I sling my wet coat over my arm, my heart skipping a beat when Abigail’s empty chair becomes a crater-sized hole in the room.

  “You okay?” Stephan asks when we’re in the corridor.

  No! How is anyone okay? “I’m fine,” I state defensively.

  Shaking his head and raising his shoulders, he says, “Death intrigues people, Liz. They take pictures. Everyone’s desensitized these days.”

  “They’re assholes. She’s a person—a freaking student they went to school with—someone’s child, sister!”

  “You want me to take you home?”

  Tucking a strand of unruly hair behind my ear, I exhale. “No. I want to walk. I need the air.”

  “It’s still storming out.”

  “I said I’m fine,” I grate out, pulling his sweater over my head and pushing it into his chest. “I’ll see you later.” Not waiting for his reply, I take off.

  Abigail was my seat neighbor. We weren’t friends, but it puts me on edge knowing she was murdered. Murdered. Someone killed her, and people are looking at her naked, violated body, sharing it like its porn—and they’re looking at me like I’m the freak.

  I need to get away from everyone.

  Four

  Sleeping the day away has left me with a thundering headache in the back of my skull. It takes me half an hour to walk to Marley’s, my mind so preoccupied I don’t even remember the journey. I’ve been working at Marley’s for two years now. It’s close to campus and helps pay the rent. Jeff, the owner, named it Marley’s after Bob Marley with visions of turning it into a pot café like one he had visited in Amsterdam. Instead, it ended up being like every other coffee shop in America: a rip-off of Starbucks.

  “Oh my god, Liz, where have you been? Did you see my text?” Charlotte hisses at me before I’ve even made it through the door. My mind has been hazy with dark thoughts—memories.

  Slipping out my jacket, I hang it on the hook and grab my apron. “Yeah. Thanks, by the way, like I needed more nightmares,” I scorn her.

  “The shops have been buzzing about it all day.”

  She seems too hyped talking about a murder. It’s like a carnival showed up in town.

  “I knew her, Char,” I tell her, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck to elevate an ache there.

  Grabbing my upper arms and forcing me to face her, she barks, “What?”

  “We weren’t friends.” I shrug from her grip.

  “How did you know her?”

  I push past her, making my way to the front of the shop, busying myself with wiping glasses over and stacking the shelf. “She’s from one of my classes,” I inform her, sensing her eyes burning into the side of my face. “We sit next to each other,” I add.

  “Shit, Liz.” She blows out a breath, resting her hip on the counter. “I can’t believe you know her.”

  “Knew her,” I correct.

  “Do you need to talk about it?”

  “No,” I snap, pushing her back through the door into the hallway. “Isn’t your shift ov
er?”

  “Yes, it is,” Jeff barks from his office.

  “Fuck off, Jeff. You need to get the heat fixed or I’m not coming in tomorrow,” Charlotte shouts back. They’re like an old married couple who resented each other but knew they needed each other at the same time.

  “You don’t come in, you don’t get paid,” he grunts.

  Rolling her eyes, she folds her arms across her chest, making her tits spill from the top of her shirt. “So, she was in your class? That’s so creepy. Maybe you know who killed her too.” Her eyes widen with the realization.

  My heart drops.

  “Don’t look.”

  “Killed who?” Jeff grunts, leaning his weight against the doorframe of his office.

  “Nosey much?” Charlotte glares at him.

  “Who killed who?” he asks again, ignoring her.

  “A girl was murdered last night,” I tell him. How does he not know when everyone else seems to? Charlotte pulls out her cell phone and holds it out to him, showing the photo she sent me earlier. He squints, devouring the image.

  “Damn,” He shakes his head. “What a waste.”

  “Pig!” Charlotte hisses, echoing my own thoughts.

  “She’s hot.” He shrugs.

  “It’s a dead fucking body, you sicko,” she berates, curling her lip.

  Holding his hands up, he raises a brow, “I’m not the one with the photo on my phone.”

  “Can you delete that?” I grab her phone and hit the trashcan icon.

  “You know her?” Jeff asks me, folding his meaty arms over his chest.

  “They were friends,” Charlotte lies, a giddiness to her tone.

  “We weren’t friends.” I narrow my gaze on her.

  “That’s because you have no friends,” Jeff retorts, chuckling to himself. Dick.

  “I have friends,” I bite back, my mind searching for the truth in my words.

  “Invisible ones don’t count.” He full-on laughs.

  “Is this funny to you?” I sneer.

  “Don’t listen to him. He’s an asshole.” Charlotte slings her arm over my shoulder and walks me away from him.