the lights, but the artificial brightness only emphasizes how big and empty the house is.
I make a beeline for my bedroom and paw through the heap of clothing on my floor, looking for something clean to wear. I haven’t done laundry in the two weeks since Mom and Dad left, and all my shirts are sour and wrinkled. I pull on an old tank top and go downstairs to make something to eat, but the carrots and broccoli have gone limp and rubbery and the bread is blooming with mold. I stand over the compost bin tossing everything out, my heart fluttering with something like panic.
I wish I’d stayed at the party. This time, I’d cooperate. I’d watch people play Guitar Hero. I’d pretend Kelsey Bartlett had even slightly tolerable taste in music. I wouldn’t make a scene in the hot tub.
Bad thoughts snake through my brain. Stupid thoughts. I wonder if those boys in the car figured out where I live, if they know I’m home alone, if they’re planning to come by later and break into my house. I wonder if Sukey’s murderer is still on the loose. I wonder if he knows where I live. I wonder if Sukey did something bad or got in trouble with some gang or stole something her murderer is still looking for.
Once I start thinking about the murder, I can’t stop, and horrifying scenes reel through my mind, all these scenarios, all these reasons. I go to the computer and type the words Sukey Byrd murder into the search box. The back of my neck heats up, and I minimize the window, as if I’m afraid someone will walk in and catch me snooping. It feels like I’m doing something forbidden—pawing through my parents’ dresser or reading Denny’s email. It’s public information , I remind myself. I’m allowed to know .
But part of me knows that I’m not allowed. That I’m breaking a rule. When I reach for the mouse again, my hand is shaking. I can feel the computer screen’s glare on my face. Be brave , I tell myself. I click the window open again.
The first few hits are for some other Sukey Byrd, a criminal lawyer in Cambridge, England, with a specialty in murder trials, but the last one’s an article from the Sun .
I click.
The page takes a moment to load. When it does, a pop-up ad blocks most of the screen. I close it and scan the page for her name.
It’s not even a real article, just a news brief: name, age, address. Ms. Byrd, 21, was estranged from her family. There have been two other murders reported since the hotel changed ownership in 2001 .
Estranged from her family. It sounds cruel and primitive, like a tribe booting one of its members out into the desert to die.
“She wasn’t estranged from me ,” I whisper at the screen.
I comb through the search results to see if there’s anything else, but there’s nothing. I don’t get it. Where’s the murder trial, the conviction, the lifetime in prison? Does this mean they never found out who did it?
Just chill , I tell myself. Newspapers don’t turn every single murder into a big story . It doesn’t mean anything .
I click the window shut and clear the search history, like I’ve been looking at porn or instructions for how to build a bomb. My skin is hot and I’m sitting up too straight. I feel conspicuous in the same way as when I came home from Lukas’s house after we kissed on his birthday—like the truth of what I’ve just done is written all over me, obvious as a clown wig, and everyone can see.
You’re allowed to know , I tell myself again, but already a fine mist of guilt is settling over me. I think of my parents and shake it off. You don’t owe them anything .
I try smoking weed again, but instead of mellowing things out it gives my worries tiny fangs and bright yellow eyes and hairy feet and sets them marching like trolls. I sit on my bed with the lights on and my cell phone at the ready, my thoughts sliding back and forth between paranoia and self-recrimination. If you weren’t so self-absorbed, you would have noticed that things weren’t
I make a beeline for my bedroom and paw through the heap of clothing on my floor, looking for something clean to wear. I haven’t done laundry in the two weeks since Mom and Dad left, and all my shirts are sour and wrinkled. I pull on an old tank top and go downstairs to make something to eat, but the carrots and broccoli have gone limp and rubbery and the bread is blooming with mold. I stand over the compost bin tossing everything out, my heart fluttering with something like panic.
I wish I’d stayed at the party. This time, I’d cooperate. I’d watch people play Guitar Hero. I’d pretend Kelsey Bartlett had even slightly tolerable taste in music. I wouldn’t make a scene in the hot tub.
Bad thoughts snake through my brain. Stupid thoughts. I wonder if those boys in the car figured out where I live, if they know I’m home alone, if they’re planning to come by later and break into my house. I wonder if Sukey’s murderer is still on the loose. I wonder if he knows where I live. I wonder if Sukey did something bad or got in trouble with some gang or stole something her murderer is still looking for.
Once I start thinking about the murder, I can’t stop, and horrifying scenes reel through my mind, all these scenarios, all these reasons. I go to the computer and type the words Sukey Byrd murder into the search box. The back of my neck heats up, and I minimize the window, as if I’m afraid someone will walk in and catch me snooping. It feels like I’m doing something forbidden—pawing through my parents’ dresser or reading Denny’s email. It’s public information , I remind myself. I’m allowed to know .
But part of me knows that I’m not allowed. That I’m breaking a rule. When I reach for the mouse again, my hand is shaking. I can feel the computer screen’s glare on my face. Be brave , I tell myself. I click the window open again.
The first few hits are for some other Sukey Byrd, a criminal lawyer in Cambridge, England, with a specialty in murder trials, but the last one’s an article from the Sun .
I click.
The page takes a moment to load. When it does, a pop-up ad blocks most of the screen. I close it and scan the page for her name.
It’s not even a real article, just a news brief: name, age, address. Ms. Byrd, 21, was estranged from her family. There have been two other murders reported since the hotel changed ownership in 2001 .
Estranged from her family. It sounds cruel and primitive, like a tribe booting one of its members out into the desert to die.
“She wasn’t estranged from me ,” I whisper at the screen.
I comb through the search results to see if there’s anything else, but there’s nothing. I don’t get it. Where’s the murder trial, the conviction, the lifetime in prison? Does this mean they never found out who did it?
Just chill , I tell myself. Newspapers don’t turn every single murder into a big story . It doesn’t mean anything .
I click the window shut and clear the search history, like I’ve been looking at porn or instructions for how to build a bomb. My skin is hot and I’m sitting up too straight. I feel conspicuous in the same way as when I came home from Lukas’s house after we kissed on his birthday—like the truth of what I’ve just done is written all over me, obvious as a clown wig, and everyone can see.
You’re allowed to know , I tell myself again, but already a fine mist of guilt is settling over me. I think of my parents and shake it off. You don’t owe them anything .
I try smoking weed again, but instead of mellowing things out it gives my worries tiny fangs and bright yellow eyes and hairy feet and sets them marching like trolls. I sit on my bed with the lights on and my cell phone at the ready, my thoughts sliding back and forth between paranoia and self-recrimination. If you weren’t so self-absorbed, you would have noticed that things weren’t
Similar Books
