Stone's Throw

“Hearing the crash of the freezing sea, stung by wind and miles from anywhere else, your first thought is: Why would anyone put a children’s hospital out here? On this isolated, exposed stretch of the English south coast, it’s hard to imagine sunny days or kids at play. It’s easier to imagine instead that what happened here was always intended. That this was a cathedral of suffering from the very beginning. I read the comments, I know there are skeptics, but even if you don’t believe ghosts are real, you know evil is. And evil people did evil things here.”

If I was still acting, there’s a version of this where a writer crafts the perfect line, where I say something profound and clever and dripping in irony and regret. Maybe even something that buys me some time. But I go in a different direction.

“You brought me here to kill me.”

“Hell of a plot twist, right?”

Hannah’s innards tied themselves in knots, the churn deepening in her lower abdomen and making her woozy. Medication mixed with terror. Another sheriff’s vehicle came up behind, lights blazing. This one had the siren going.

Lenore’s boots came down off the desk. Her fingers were already moving, forcing the location ping. A yellow triangle bloomed up out of the green, right where the red flats tilted into the limestone teeth that they called Dead Man’s Ridge.

Mile marker 42.

The desert at three in the afternoon in July is not a place. It’s a verdict. The juniper trees were doing whatever it is junipers do, which is mostly looking like they’re disappointed in you, and the snakes were under them having opinions, and the sky was that washed-out denim color that means God has stopped paying attention.

They say high school is often the highlight of one’s life. The time when everything just clicks. Good friends, teen romance, popularity. And for a long time, I thought they were all full of shit.

Unless your name was Danny Brennan.

Kevin watches his father’s hands on the wheel. Duc makes a sound through his nose. He covers his mouth. Clears his throat.

“I almost won,” Duc says.

“You always almost win.”

“You still talking to Oliver?” Ethan asked.

I heard the edge enter his voice. Like he wanted me to know it was there. It was cute, this paranoia. Like dating a teenager who was worried about you texting other boys.

“Nah,” I replied, “Not anymore.”

Janey and her boyfriend made it easy. Just like Gus said, same motel on San Pedro, same time, every week, tumbling through the door in each other’s arms like clockwork. Hell, they didn’t even close the curtains most days. Like they wanted everyone to see.

I always hated the smell of cigarettes, the way they burned when you put them out on me, Ma, but coming from his mouth, it was intoxicating.