Lost Boy

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 through 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.