Lost Boy

“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.ThreeMy 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.