Page 4 of The Next Lie

The closet…I am back in the closet.

Dark wood against my spine. Dust in my nose. My knees pulled to my chest. My hand clamped over my own mouth because the lady on the phone said be quiet, sweet girl, you stay quiet until someone comes.

Gunshots.

A scream cut short.

Deedy.

Did I hear Delia scream?

I try to grab the memory, but it slides away from me. Not gone. Worse. There, but covered in fog.

After. What happened after?

Police lights. Red and blue through the slats of the closet door. A man’s voice calling my name. Not Cal. Someone else. A stranger trying to sound gentle and failing because there was blood in the house and adults suck at pretending when children are watching.

“Reva Hart? Honey, can you come out?”

I didn’t.

I remember that.

I stayed in the closet until someone opened the door.

Hands reached in. A woman’s hands, maybe. Or a man’s. They were covered in gloves. I remember the smell of latex and gunpowder and leather shoes. I remember someone wrapping a blanket around my shoulders even though I wasn’t cold.

I remember stairs.

Do I?

My knees almost buckle as I see it in flashes—the hallway outside my parents’ room. The staircase. The living room. A sheet on the floor.

No, not on the floor…it was laying over top of something.

White cotton, dragged from a bed. Too thin to hide the shape underneath. A dark stain soaking through near one edge.

Someone saying, “Don’t let her look.”

I saw the blood. I heard the shots. But the bodies⁠—

Did I see their faces?

Did I see Delia?

Did I see her dead?

My breath breaks apart.

I can’t find the answer.

I can’t find anything.

“I saw them,” I whisper.

No one answers.

“I saw them.”