Page 4

Dallas

“Less is more, no matter what anyone says,” Evie sweeps a clean, black line across the edge of my eyelid, ending it in a sharp wing. “If your eyeliner is on point, no one cares about all that clown shit.”

I can only assume she’s talking about contouring, which I’ve already decided I don’t have the patience for anyway. And neither does Evie, as if she needs makeup anyway. She’s one of those people whose skin has the same glow, no matter what, but she swears by eyeliner and good mascara.

“Here, you do the other one,” she hands me the tube of eyeliner and lays back against my pillows with her phone while I stare into the folding mirror propped up on my bed. My right eye turns out shockingly well even though I’m bent in half and I have no idea how to hold the felt tip applicator.

“How hot do I look?” I shoot her a seductive look over my shoulder.

“Hot enough to come out with us tonight to the old railroad bridge,” she replies, returning her own devious look.

“Yeah, right,” I scoff, twisting the top back on the tube.

“Why not?” She sounds shocked that I would even question the idea.

“Colson would freak out if I did that.”

“He would not freak out,” she argues, “you hang out with Col and I all the time.”

“Yeah, you and him, not his friends.”

“What’s wrong with his friends? Mason’s fun, right? He’s also really nice.”

I’ve known Mason since he and Colson played soccer together in the elementary school youth league. He’s nice enough, but floats along like he’s perpetually high without ever taking any drugs. Alex and Aiden came along when he got to middle school and the four of them have been inseparable since. Sometimes they play Mario Party with me, but that’s about it.

“So’s Alex,” Evie continues, “he’s really sweet, I promise. And Aiden is…” she trails off, unable to hide the look of defeat.

“Exactly,” I shoot her a smug grin.

Sometimes I think Evie forgets that she’s one of them. They don’t let just anyone into their circle. And on top of that, I’m three years younger. When they’re loud and they start fights and they shoot off their guns in the woods, I don’t want to be anywhere near them. But Evie doesn’t see it because she’s Evie and I’m “Colson’s little sister.”

“Whatever, Lara Croft,” she chuckles, then picks up her controller and turns to the TV mounted on my bubblegum pink wall, “are you still going to show me how to get through this level?”

I peer at the screen and try to remember the best route through the temple ruins, but when I glance at Evie, she’s furiously tapping and swiping her fingers across her phone screen again.

“Who are you texting?”

“Just this guy,” she replies as a smile tugs at her cheeks, “this guy from school.”

●●●

I remember the moment I heard my mom said, hello , and then, oh my god , and then she screamed Colson’s name in a voice I’ve never heard before in my life. But he didn’t answer.

I thought the worst—or what I thought was the worst. I thought Colson was gone, too, killed in a car accident because he drives too fast or he did something so stupid with his friends that it finally caught up to him.

Fortunately, he’s still alive, but it was the Canaan Police Department on the phone, telling my mom that Colson just found Evie and pulled her decomposing body out of a creek. But I don’t find that out until later, when I realize I’ve stepped into hell. And hell doesn’t have to be loud and filled with fire and brimstone. It can be quiet, or completely silent.

And I can’t take the silence.

Everything seems normal at first; the morning sun is brilliant, I’m putting on makeup, I’m throwing things in my school bag. My mom yells something up the stairs, but I don’t hear it. And after she and Scott rush out of the house, I don’t know what to do. I can’t go to school because Colson’s not here and I always ride with him. He was here last night, why did he leave early?

I text my best friend, Shelby, but she’s probably headed to school. Eventually, she texts back, but I don’t know what to say because I don’t know what’s going on . Instead, I wander around my house, listless, and then sit in my room because everything feels eerie and still. I feel better shut inside my room with its bright bubblegum pink walls, surrounded by all things familiar and good. I’m coming back upstairs after filling my purple tumbler when my phone vibrates with a text.

SHELBY (11:02AM): Omfg Dallas are you OK?

What is she talking about?

There’s a link below to a news site. I click on it and a video appears of a woman standing on the side of the road with a microphone. And then everything stops. My arm falls and the handle of my cup slips from my fingers, bouncing onto the carpet at my feet.

A jolt shoots through my chest and my heart feels like it’s about to explode. And then I feel my cheeks move, my muscles tense, and suddenly my face contorts into a grotesque mask as sobs heave from my chest. I start staggering around the hallway like I’m searching for something, but I don’t know what.

On instinct, I pass my room, heading for the one on the other side of Colson’s. And when I burst through the door, I hope I’ll wake up and the nightmare will end. Evie’s bed, with the tufted white comforter and green quilt, is still made. My eyes dart to her pillows, where a ragged stuffed dog lays, just where she left it. It looks like a wolf with black fur and its paws splayed out, but Evie says it’s supposed to be a German Shepherd, just like the one she had at her mom’s house when she was younger. The pointy ears are lop-sided now and the fur is flattened, but something propels me forward and I scramble across the bed, grabbing the plush toy and collapsing onto her pillows.

It still smells like her, and when I bury my face in the pillows, they still smell like her, too. All of it draws the most gut-wrenching scream from my throat followed by a barrage of pathetic sobs. After a few minutes, I’m just shaking in silent convulsions, all alone while I squeak out Evie’s name between gasps.

Where did you go? How could you leave me like this?

Catatonic, I stare at the sage green walls and imagine a thousand scenarios where Evie walks through the door, asks why I’m being a sad sack, and tells me to wash my face because we’re going to the creek, or shopping, or to the ancient Dairy Queen by the community pool, or one of the other countless places we go together whenever she comes to Dire Ridge.

What do I do now? Evie is my safe place; the only person I ever wanted to be like. And if she’s gone now, then what do I do?

I want to stay in here forever and not face the terrifying reality outside, but as soon as I hear the door open downstairs, I know I can’t. I drag myself off Evie’s bed, taking her stuffed dog with me, and stagger back down the hall to my own room before anyone can see me.

By late afternoon, it’s all over the news and social media and my phone is buzzing and flashing like it’s about to self-destruct. Colson found Evie in the woods. He and Mason found her “lifeless body” in the creek.

But it all means the same thing— she’s not coming home.

I recognize Colson’s footsteps. He walks past my doorway and into his room. Then there’s a knock before my mom appears in my doorway. After a few moments, she finally steps through the threshold and sits down on the edge of my bed. Her long black hair is immaculate, like usual, but she looks haggard and on edge. She must notice my swollen face and exhausted eyes, because she doesn’t bother asking if I’m alright. She starts to tell me what happened, but I’ve already heard it. And by the time she leaves to do whatever parents do when they find out one of their kids has been lying dead in the woods, my face is just as tear-stained as hers.

The story is the same, over and over, and by that night, I’ve heard it a million times in a million different ways. I have to stop, so I do the only thing I can think of. I turn on my PlayStation and start playing Witcher 3 on my TV mounted above my shelves in an effort to get lost in a different world that doesn’t so closely resemble hell.

Suddenly, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye and when I glance over, Colson’s eclipsing the doorway. He doesn’t say anything, but after a minute, he strolls across the room and sits down next to me, his eyes glued to the screen. I keep playing, because he doesn’t talk, and I don’t want to, either.

Colson can read people, so he probably knows that I don’t know what the hell to do or say even though I usually talk to him about every random thing I think of. He seems calm now, but I don’t want to think about what he must’ve been like earlier. Now, I’m dreading tomorrow, and the next day, and the next…

Colson leans back onto the pillow, his arm behind his head, and stays that way.

“Use the Axii Sign,” he finally says about 45 minutes later.

I do what he says and get the information I need from the idiots in the tavern for my Geralt to continue his quest.

“That was easy,” I laugh under my breath.

“You’re too nice,” Colson chides with a sigh, his eyes still glued to the screen, “you should lean into being a prick.”

Like you?

“You don’t have to be selfless all the time.”

I’m about to argue with him, tell him that it takes more energy to be mean to someone than kind, but before I can, I realize that he’s not talking about the game anymore. I want to know what he knows, but I don’t have the energy or the courage to dig deeper. I don’t even have the energy to get up and go through my regular nighttime routine.

It’s dark now, and Colson’s already asleep, sprawled out on the white bedspread next to me. So, when I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, I turn off the lights and crawl under the blanket and try to forget where I am. And maybe the universe is giving me a break, because I fall asleep almost immediately.

But I don’t stay that way.

I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, only that it’s still dark when a deafening roar rips through my room.

It’s Colson, but it doesn’t sound like him. Is there someone else in my room? Are they fighting? I let out a scream, flailing in my sheets as I try to roll over. But before I can, someone grabs my calf and drags me down the bed. I’m clawing at the sheets, trying to grab whatever I can, but it happens too fast. And then I feel someone grab me around the waist and hoist me into the air. My legs spin out and my screams echo through the room as he carries me backward, coming to a halt against the wall with a thud. A hand clamps over my mouth and I feel his breath in my ear.

“ Shhh… ” I recognize Colson’s raspy whisper, “I’ll get you out of here, I swear…”

What the hell is he talking about? And why would I need to get out of my own room? But I’m so freaked out that all I can do is sob into his hand.

“The road…Mase…” he mumbles in my ear, his words cutting in and out, “the game…should’ve told you… I fucking told you! ” he finally screams into the side of my head, making me shake in terror.

Someone bangs on the door, shaking it on its hinges. Shouts come from the other side. They sound like my mom and Scott. I think they’re screaming my name. The doorknob jiggles and then the door shakes as Scott pounds on it again.

Colson’s arm flies out in front of us and, at first, I don’t know what he’s doing. He’s reaching out, but his fingers are bent at odd angles.

“I’ll kill him,” he growls, “I won’t let him hurt you.”

His fingers tremble, curling around something I can’t see. Then I realize…

He thinks he has a gun.

I flinch as there’s another bang and the door flies open, sending splinters flying across the room. But there’s no gunshot, because Colson’s not holding a weapon. Instead, he wraps both arms around me and turns into the corner, covering me with his body. He’s squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe.

“Colson, stop!” I gasp.

There’s a guttural cry and both of us are pulled backward. I’m looking at my ceiling, legs flailing while I’m lying face up on Colson’s chest with his arms locked around me. Dark silhouettes fly in and out of view and suddenly I hear my mom’s voice, yelling Colson’s name. His arm lifts every few seconds, and then clamps back down around my chest.

I hear Scott’s voice behind me, speaking in deep murmurs, and then Colson erupts in panic-stricken cries. His arms loosen enough to slip out from beneath it, but before my mom can pull me clear, Colson grabs my wrist, jerking me backward.

“Let go!” I cry, frantically shaking my arm, but to no avail.

When I look up, Scott is on the floor behind Colson, arms wrapped around his shoulders. Scott’s big, but Colson is fighting him so hard that they’re slamming into my wall and knocking everything on my desk over. But still, Scott’s trying to speak into his ear, trying to calm him down. Colson jerks me toward him, making me pitch forward onto the carpet. I pull back, punching his hand with my fist, but he can’t feel anything.

His legs flail and he throws his head back repeatedly, but Scott keeps dodging him, not letting go.

“Evie!” Colson screams, holding my wrist in a death grip, “ Evie! ” he cries and fights Scott with such ferocity that Scott nearly has him in a chokehold.

He’s crushing my wrist. It feels like it’s about to snap.

Amid shouts and sobs, my mom crouches in front of me in her pink jersey pajama pants and tank top. “Colson, baby, let go!” she pleads, holding my arm with one hand and trying to pry Colson’s fingers off my wrist with the other.

I let out a shrill scream as his nails dig into my wrist, tearing at my flesh like a bear trap. Finally, my hand slips from his fingers and I fall back onto the carpet, blubbering and scrambling away. My mom follows, ushering me out of the room. When I glance back, Colson is wailing, his eyes squeezed shut as he thrashes back and forth against Scott, still holding him tight. Then the door shuts, turning his cries to a dull roar.

Eventually, the house goes silent again and it’s safe to return to my bedroom. But when I step into the hallway, I spy Scott’s silhouette in the hallway. He’s standing at Colson’s closed door, having finally gotten him back to his own room. I don’t know that Colson ever woke up, but Scott’s arms are braced on either side of the door frame and his head is bowed between them. I can barely see it through the shadows, but his shoulders shake ever so slightly with each breath.

I look away, not wanting to see any more of the abject suffering that’s descended over my house. But as soon as I step through my bedroom door, I’m immediately reminded of everything. My desk is crooked, my monitors are askew, my covers lay in a pile on the floor, and my TV screen is nothing but a giant cracked spiderweb with my lamp laying on the floor beneath it.

My mom helps me pick up a few things and straightens my desk, but all I want to do is go back to bed. My nerves are shot and I’m exhausted. I haven’t fought with Colson like that since we were little, but fighting with a pre-teen is nothing like being thrown around by him now. He’s more than a foot taller than me and he’s strong, strong enough to have easily killed me if his brain put the wrong image in his head.

“He looked just like he used to when he had night terrors as a toddler,” my mom sighs, pulling my covers back up the mattress, “ God …” she trails off, not bothering to continue.

And what is there to say? We all know why he did it—what he was seeing.

“He thought he had his gun,” I mutter as I climb into bed, “he wanted to shoot you all when you came through the door.”

She jerks her head up, but doesn’t say anything, just nods and leans down to kiss the top of my head.

“I know he didn’t mean to hurt you, but maybe keep your door locked at night, just for now.”

Don’t worry, as if I need any convincing to shut out the rest of the world.

Maybe it’s better that Colson was in my room instead of his, where he could’ve grabbed his Glock or one of his rifles in his closet and gone stalking through the house looking for whoever. Regardless, this is my life now; shattered TVs, splintered doors, and nervous breakdowns in the dead of night.

Maybe Colson just doesn’t want to be alone. But now he can’t be near me, either. Because his nightmares might kill me, too.

●●●

“This was a dumb idea,” Colson laments as he speeds past the thousands of acres striped with bright green crops.

“I’m going crazy in that house, and so are you,” I reply, dragging a tube of light pink gloss across my lips.

He would agree with me sooner if he recalled what went down in my room the other night, but he doesn’t remember. My mom asked him the next day if he remembered sleepwalking.

Sleepwalking…

“I fell asleep in Dallas’s room. Did I go back to mine?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Scott replied. “I helped you back to your room.” He paused for a moment, swirling his coffee around in his Philadelphia Eagles tumbler. “And I locked up your guns in the safe.”

Scott’s words hung heavy in the air, but Colson didn’t respond. Instead, he just continued slathering cream cheese on a bagel while I listened to them from the living room. I pulled my sweatshirt cuff over my hand, trying to forget the deep scratches and welts on my wrist that still burn with each movement.

Colson tossed the dirty knife into the sink with a clang and turned away, taking his bagel with him. “I’m not suicidal,” he muttered at Scott as he headed for the front door, slamming it behind him.

No one wants to talk about what happened that night. And the truth is that I don’t want to talk about it, either, at least not right now. It’s why my mom turned off my light, left my room, and then quietly pulled Evie’s bedroom door closed like a cursed sarcophagus never to be spoken of again.

“School’s a shitty alternative,” Colson grumbles, sling-shotting his Civic around a curve, “we should get the guys and go kayaking or something.”

He’s right, I don’t want to be at school, either, but I can’t stand being at home all day. I’m afraid to be around Scott. I shouldn’t be, but I’ve never seen him so…sad. He has every reason to be, I’m just not used to it. Before, Scott was always laughing and joking and I could hear him coming from a mile away. But now, he’s much more stoic, focused on finding the person who murdered Evie.

Evie…

I’ve spent so much time crying by myself, it’s amazing that I’m not dying of dehydration. Colson and Evie were best friends, but to me she was something different. I wasn’t the annoying little sister to her; she took me everywhere with her when she came to Dire Ridge, she taught me how to put makeup on so I didn’t look like a clown, and even though she was a softball star, she always talked about how jealous she was of how fast I run on the track. She always tried to play video games with me and ended up laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe because she was so terrible at whatever I was playing.

Now everything sucks, but I still have to pass all my classes and make it to sophomore year. Maybe Colson can blow off the last month of school and still graduate, but he’s already been accepted to college on scholarship. I haven’t. Besides, spending a day at the creek with his friends sounds about as much fun as putting my hand in a blender.

I even tried to look presentable today. Not that I’m a slob, but I’m wearing actual jeans rather than running shorts and a hoodie like I normally do. And who knows, maybe if I dress different, no one will know it’s me and they won’t start asking questions I don’t want to answer.

As soon as we walk through the double doors from the senior parking lot, a girl calls Colson’s name. Bryce Decker, another senior, and her signature headful of dark brown ringlets appear, arms outstretched, and embraces him in a hug. He wraps one arm around her waist, but keeps his eyes on me.

“If you want to leave, just text me,” Colson calls over her shoulder as I break away and head for the stairs.

“Yeah, OK,” I scoff back.

I think he just wants an excuse to leave, and honestly, it’ll be difficult not to take him up on it. This fact becomes more and more apparent as the day goes on.

After something really bad happens, and you’re absent from school for a couple of days, that’s when everyone hears about it. If it’s bad enough, the principal and teachers make an announcement so that when you come back, everyone can try to act natural instead of a thousand people asking the same question and causing a distraction. But I can’t decide whether it’s better to deal with the questions or feel their eyes on me, speculating in silence. And by third period, I realize it was a mistake to come back.

The bell sounds and everybody starts rising around me. Coach Wheeler’s been talking for about 45 minutes, but I haven’t heard a word. There’s a picture on the screen at the front of the room of the Freedom Riders and the worksheet I should’ve been filling out is still blank.

Where’s everyone going?

Oh, that’s right…lunch.

Algebra, Spanish—I really need to study more—and now U.S. History. The year is almost over, but I’ve forgotten my schedule after only a few days.

I’m not hungry, but I’m supposed to go to the cafeteria, so I do. It’s also where my best friends, Shelby, Maddie, Carter, and Austin will be—the only people I’ve spoken to since Friday. Thank God for group chats. Maybe I can just hide among them and ignore everyone else.

Shockingly, I’ve managed to avoid any truly awkward interactions. My teachers already sent emails days ago with their condolences and information about make-up assignments. As far as everyone else is concerned, it helps to avoid eye contact. Mrs. Wilmore demands absolute silence as soon as the bell rings so she can delve into compound inequalities, so there was minimal opportunity for conversation in Algebra. Nobody is allowed to speak English once Mrs. Johnson starts class, and I’m so terrible at Spanish that it wouldn’t matter if anyone tried to ask me about Evie anyway. Once I get to U.S. History, Ally Westmont at least has some tact and jumps right in, asking if I need her to make copies of her notes from Monday. Thankfully, she doesn’t make a show of it.

Before, nobody really knew who I was, but they all knew Colson. Outside of my friends, I was just the faceless girl who lived in the same house as him. We don’t even look alike. If we were standing right next to each other, you’d never know we’re related.

I look like our mom; short with long black hair and thunder thighs. Colson looks like our dad; really tall with dark auburn hair. We both have blue eyes, but mine are much darker. His look slightly radioactive. Everybody thinks they’re so dreamy, but he probably drank some battery acid or primordial ooze from a sewer pipe when we were kids that made them that way. Regardless, I still have to hear about it.

Gross.

But, now, everyone knows who I am. I’m Dallas Lutz, Colson’s sister, and the stepsister of the murdered girl from Canaan.

As soon as I reach the bottom of the stairs, I duck into the restroom next to the cafeteria doors. It’s empty, until a minute later when a small group of girls walk in. I’m otherwise oblivious to them, tucking my grey tank top back into my high-waist jeans until I hear one of them speak.

“Colson’s back,” I pause when I hear his name, “I saw him in Calc.”

“Are you going to his stepsister’s visitation?” another girl asks.

I decide to stay put until they leave as to avoid another potentially awkward situation.

“Probably,” the first girl replies, “any chance to see him, right?”

Her tone gives me pause.

“Classy,” comments a third girl.

Suddenly, the bathroom stall feels much smaller than when I walked in. I tilt my head slightly to peek out the crack in the door. Three girls mill around in front of the mirrors. A blonde one tosses her hair back and begins gathering it at the top of her head. I recognize her from Psychology. She’s a senior, but I’ve never spoken to her. Another with freckled cheeks leans against a sink, tapping away at her phone.

The last girl with straight, dark hair leans into the mirror to wipe away something under her eye. “I kind of wish I was seeing Colson somewhere else. A funeral’s not really where I want to spend my Saturday morning . ”

She must be the one who has a class with Colson. And what’s she getting at?

“Why?” the blonde girl snickers, “Don’t you want to seduce him among the tombstones?”

The freckled girl on her phone glances up with a snort.

“No,” the dark-haired girl replies with a roll of her eyes, “but it’s not the worst idea, he’s hot as hell.”

“What about Bryce?”

“What about Bryce?” the dark-haired girl sneers with contempt.

“She’s been after him all year.”

“It’s not my fault she has no game,” she laughs in response.

“There’s still Mason…” the blonde girl chimes in, “and Aiden…”

“Aiden’s a psychopath,” the freckled one says.

“But a beautiful one,” the blonde one replies.

“ Anyway, ” the dark-haired girl interrupts her, “I’m guessing Colson won’t be much fun to talk to on Saturday.”

Are you serious?

Heat radiates across my cheeks. Are they really talking about Evie’s funeral like it’s some party? I stay put, resigned to waiting until they leave.

“I still can’t believe he’s back at school already,” the freckled girl says. “Did you know he’s the one who found her?”

A lump rises in my throat.

Please, don’t…

“What?” the blonde girl’s voice hitches in curiosity.

“ Yeah, ” she replies. “Colson pulled her out of the creek, after she’d been there— dead —for a week.”

“ Ugh, gross… ” the blonde girl murmurs with revulsion.

“Needless to say, it’ll be a closed casket.” Then she turns to the dark-haired girl with disgust. “So, maybe you shouldn’t get too close to Colson yet.”

“Everyone grieves differently. I bet I can snap him out of it...doing what he loves best,” the dark-haired girl snickers, her words dripping with innuendo.

I bow my head and clasp my hands over my ears as their shrill giggles echo off the cinderblock walls. I can’t listen to them anymore, talking about Evie like some inconvenient detail, describing her like shit on the bottom of a sneaker. Why won’t they just fucking leave? I try to pretend I’m somewhere else, but all I can think about is Evie and what she might’ve looked like in that creek, and then I hear Colson’s screams, and then the scratches on my wrists start to burn again.

Finally, everything goes quiet and I let go of my head to listen. I’m finally alone in the restroom, and I’d better get out of here before someone else comes in and says God-knows-what. Plus, hanging out in here too long guarantees that I’ll smell like stale vape smoke.

I throw open the stall door and take a quick look in the mirror. I look awful, my eyes wet and cheeks flushed, ruining any chance of remaining inconspicuous. I tear the hairband out of my ponytail and start brushing my thick hair out from behind my ears to obscure my face. After a few deep breaths and blotting as many tears as I can out of my eyes with industrial-grade cardboard paper towels, I fly out of the restroom.

The vestibule between the gym and cafeteria is deserted, everyone a good 10 minutes into the lunch period. Engulfed in the dull roar of the cafeteria, I glance around, deciding where to go. Shelby, Maddie, Carter, Austin, and a couple of his basketball friends are at our usual table across the room by the windows, but I need to buy more time for my blotchy skin to calm down.

Instead, I turn and head for the snack line only a few feet away. If I was hungry before, I sure as hell am not now. At least this way I can face the window to the vestibule and not have to look at anyone.

But it doesn’t help. As soon as I grab a bag of Doritos from the rack, I reach into my bag for my wallet and my eyes catch a girl at the closest table. It’s the dark-haired girl from the restroom, sitting with her friends and laughing like nothing ever happened. And maybe to her, nothing did happen. Maybe her talking about my brother and sister like that was nothing new. Maybe she’s even forgotten about it by now.

The lump rises again and before I can stop it, my face contorts and the tears come spilling over my cheeks again. I look down, trying to hide behind my wall of hair. I can’t face Letha, the sweet old grandma-like lady who sits at the register. Right now, she’s laughing with a couple of football players and ringing up four Gatorades and a mountain of food for each of them.

I toss my snack back onto the metal rack and step out of line. I act like I’m digging through my bag, trying to find something, but I can’t stop the tears. Everyone can see me and there’s nothing I can do about it. I should just suck it up and go to my table with my friends, but that would mean walking all the way across the cafeteria with everyone looking at me. This fact makes me cry even harder.

But before I can decide what to do, an arm appears in my periphery and wraps around my shoulders. They spin me around and sweep me through the nearby door into the stairwell.

The door clangs shut, and when I turn around and look up, my eyes round with shock.