“Making this speech at what was supposed to be a vigil for Grace is some bullshit,” says Hana.
Muriel snorts. “Ballsy, bold, brazen. I can think of lots of b words that describe her.”
“You can just say bitch. No one will mind.” I chase two Advil with a mouthful of water. The headache from crying needs to go away. Tears don’t help, but sometimes they happen. Such is life. And death, apparently.
“I object,” says Hana. “I’ve met some banging bitches over the years. But this woman sure isn’t one of them.”
“I don’t care what the police say,” continues Dianne. “That the true perpetrator of these crimes is right now sitting at home in her living room is an outrage.”
I raise my brows. “She’s wrong about the crimes part. But right that I am in fact sitting in my living room.”
“Her psychic probably told her you were,” says Hana.
“We should ask for the lotto numbers.”
“That woman should be rotting in a prison cell.” Dianne all but trembles with emotion. “Not my sweet boy.”
Muriel makes a noise. One indicating deep thoughts. “Notice she’s not mentioning your name. Think she’s worried you’ll go after her for slander?”
“She has more money than me. You should see the house Ryan grew up in,” I say. “Just getting legal advice last time cost a small fortune. Facing off with her and her team of lawyers doesn’t seem particularly smart. But I also worry about giving her any more of a platform. Like publicly paying attention to her might legitimize her more in some way.”
“It’s complicated,” agrees Hana.
Meanwhile, Dianne goes into detail about her darling homicidal son’s most admirable qualities. How he played football in high school and volunteered for a local charity fundraiser. The way he would mow an elderly neighbor’s yard when he was younger. And hasn’t he been assisting with the prison literacy program for the last year?
My favorite stalker, Laura, stands beside her future mother-in-law with her hands clasped tight and a beatific smile on her face. She’s just that sweet and sincere, apparently. The white sweater dress and silent stoic pose is a great aesthetic. This shit is probably going viral on social media. Seems my cousin’s death is just adding fire to the #justiceforryan movement.
How low do you have to be to hijack a woman’s death for your own agenda? Assholes.
“Smart of them to let her do the talking,” I say. “Dianne has a background in local politics and knows how to spin.”
Hana gasps. “Did you see that? Someone’s wearing a Team Sidney t-shirt in the crowd!”
“Ha. They are so on my Christmas card list.” My smile isn’t big, but it’s there. And its presence makes me feel like I am betraying Grace. I kind of want to throw something at the screen. But the only person that might hurt is me. And the TV of course. The way my emotions are all over the fucking place. I feel guilty and angry and a hundred other things. None of which are doing anyone any good. What we need to do is find out who killed my cousin. “They went to the trouble of either taking her to the same park or luring her out there where Briana Petersen was found. Why use a different method to murder her?”
“Strangling someone with your bare hands takes strength,” answers Muriel. “The ability to subdue them and keep up the pressure. Brain death takes five or so minutes.”
“A bullet to the back of the head is easier,” says Hana. “They didn’t ask you to identify the body?”
I shake my head. Not that they can see me. “No. I’m guessing my aunt had already arrived in town.”
“Do you think you’ll hear from her?” asks Muriel.
“I highly doubt it. She hated me before all of this. Her only child just got murdered, most likely because of a link to me. Those feelings will only be compounded now.”
“Wonder if they tried to bury her out there,” says Hana. “How closely did they follow what happened to Briana?”
“We need more information. The statement the cops made didn’t tell us a damn thing.”
There’s a noise from the lock on the back door and in walks Noah. My heart does its usual belly flop at the sight of him. A tension inside me unwinds. I don’t remember it being like this last time…so big and unwieldy and all consuming. It would make sense to slow down. Me and romantic relationships have an awful history, and he couldn’t have chosen a worse time to get involved with me. Though his alibi sure saved my ass and then some. My mobile phone data would place me at home. But someone having actual eyes on you is better.
“Noah’s back. Talk to you guys later.” I pick up my cell and disconnect the call. Then I turn off the TV.
And here we are. Just him and me.
The thing is, blurting out I like him or love him or I don’t know what is not a good idea. Not this soon. Not in the middle of all of this. However, there’s this tangle of words sitting on my tongue just waiting to be set free. I’m not even sure what it is I want to say. A safer option might be performing an interpretive dance or reciting some bad poetry. Anything that doesn’t involve throwing my panties and poor beat-up heart at the man.
His dark hair is damp and slicked back. And he’s wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a black tee. There are bruises beneath hiseyes. A reminder of last night’s lack of sleep. He’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
