Fractured.

She hadn't screamed. She hadn't fought. She got into the Ramcharger.

The man had calmly approached her two blocks from the diner and had said her name. Before Naomi could ask how he knew this, he told her that she was going with him, and unfortunately for her, he wouldn't take no for an answer.

She'd been frozen. Unable to move her legs even if she wanted to. All she could do was nod.

They'd been driving for an hour, at least. The interior of the Ramcharger was completely sterile and had no discernible smell. The passenger seat squeaked with every small movement she made. It was dark, and Naomi barely had any experience with places outside of her town, so she had no idea where they were. She tried not to look at the man, but her curiosity got the better of her. If she weren't frightened beyond belief, she would have commented that the seventies had called and wanted their haircut back. Or how he should really invest in a new denim jacket. She couldn't. His large hands at ten and two on the steering wheel could break her in half. He had the expression, or lack thereof, of somebody who wouldn't care if she lived or died.

He had not restrained her. He had not touched her. He had not spoken the entire car ride.

Naomi thought about Haruka and Olga--how terrified they must be, how they must be searching the town and tearing the house apart. Her stomach soured, and her heart began to race. Pangs of guilt like icicles. She should have told her mother about the break-in. In retrospect, she was in disbelief at her negligence. She tried not to look towards her mother for protection, but it was unavoidable now. She wanted her mom.

Her hands tightened on the green folder labeled "Moss", which was lying across her lap. And the competition. She began to feel guilty over this, too. She thought of all the people who weren't granted the same opportunities as her. And how selfish she felt for taking it for granted. How now, she realized that she had wanted to read. She had wanted to make something of herself. She had wanted to win. She wanted to make her mother proud.

This man had taken away that opportunity.

She hadn't realized that globs of tears were falling onto the folder. Her breaths bordered on hyperventilating.

The man looked at her from the corner of his eye and offered nothing.

*

She waited in the car in a motel parking lot as the man went to buy a room.

Her hands hugged her arms as if they were cold. It was seventy-two degrees outside, and she couldn't stop shivering. She tried to convince herself that it had been chilly in the car, but knew it hadn't been. They'd driven for two hours, and she was still terrified.

The man returned to the vehicle and opened up the trunk, pulling out a long black duffel bag. He then opened the passenger door.

"Get out," he said. "Bring the folder."

Naomi said nothing. She obeyed him, stepping out into the warm night and following the man to a room labeled "10." He unlocked it and stepped inside.

"Wait by the door."

She watched as he walked the perimeter of the room, checked under the bed, the closet, and all of the desk drawers. When he checked the bathroom, she heard the metal clasps of the shower curtain slide open and then close again.

He emerged and nodded. "Shut it and lock."

Naomi hugged the folder close to her chest with one arm and did as she was told. He hadn't moved from the doorway of the bathroom.

"Put the folder on the desk and sit on the bed."

"Wait--"

"Please do as I say."

So she did. She couldn't help but notice that there was only one bed in the room. Her heart sank. She was too stunned by her realization to cry or beg him. There was a pulse in her stomach--insistent and painful. She'd read about these kinds of things in novels and the news-- young women being kidnapped off the street and trafficked through the desert. It was more prevalent than people wanted to admit. It was Naomi's worst nightmare. She'd rather die than get caught up in that kind of arrangement. She glanced at the man, who had moved over to the desk chair, turned it around, and sat three feet from the foot of the bed.

"Sir," Naomi began. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. "I don't know who you are. Or why I'm here. But if you're going to do what I think you're going to do, please let me go after. I won't tell anybody. Not a single soul. I promise. Please just make it fast.”

Something behind the man’s dark eyes changed—a flicker of amusement. He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling loosely.

“Is that what you think this is?”

“I don't know what else it could be.”

“Hm.”

Naomi looked around the room. It smelled like bleach and cigarette smoke. Her eyes returned to the man, whose expression remained unchanged.

“You have something I want,” he said. His voice was so deep that she felt it reverberate in her chest. “It isn’t that.”

“Then, what is it?”

The man sighed and turned slightly so he could grab the folder from the desk.

“Why are you writing about Moss, Naomi?”

She stilled, breathing heavily through her mouth. He had not opened the folder. He wasn’t even looking at it. He simply had it in his lap, keeping his eyes on hers.

“How do you know my name?”

“Don’t answer a question with a question.”

“How do you know my name?” She repeated, her voice on the edge of defense. The man sat back, huffed, and ignored her.

“Choosing to revisit a time of which fate already resolved is foolish,” he told her. “Your grand discoveries aren’t what you think they are. They are not monumental. They are static. Mulling over it won’t change anything. Fate is a static force.”

“I write about things that interest me.”

“Interest, in the context of the way you use the term, does you no good.”

“How would you know?”

“I know things.”

Naomi scoffed. “Or so you think.”

The man stood, placed the folder back on the table, and walked over to the duffel on the ground. From it, he produced the suppressed gun and placed it over the folder. Naomi quickly pulled her knees up beneath her and scurried back towards the headboard.

“What are you doing with that?” She asked, her voice trembling.

“I’m trying to show you that what you’re doing isn’t a benign matter. It’s irresponsible.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

He considered this as he sat back down on the chair, the gun behind him.

“Naomi,” he said. “Meaning pleasantness. Gentle. Above all. Your mother chose well.”

“How do you know my mother?”

“You’re tired.”

“How do you know my mother?”

“It’s almost one in the morning.”

“So what?” she answered, her voice louder and more defiant.

“Now, you sleep.”

“Ha!” she exclaimed. “With a strange man who kidnapped me watching? No thanks.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The man was done talking for the night. He didn’t move a muscle. He sat there and stared at her. They were like this for a while—it could have been minutes or hours. Neither of them was willing to concede a word. And even though she felt her eyelids flutter often, she refused to fall asleep. Fear had turned into anger over her lost opportunity. All she felt was hate for the man sitting across from her, who was completely unconcerned for her emotional state. Any fluctuations in her mood did not seem to bother him.

He hadn’t touched the gun since he put it on the table. He hadn’t so much as looked at it. This should have brought Naomi solace, but it made no difference to her. He had all the time in the world to kill her. Still, he didn’t move and made no indication that he would.

“If you know my name,” she began, no longer caring about breaking her silence. “I think it’s only fair that I know yours.”

“Fairness isn’t a valid concept.”

“I want to know your name.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Name first. Sleep after.”

She’d poked a nerve. He rolled his eyes and then settled back on hers. Her head was heavy with exhaustion, but she refused to allow herself to rest if she didn’t know his name.

But it didn’t work. Sleep was taking her. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and her vision narrowed until she could no longer clearly see him in front of her.

Naomi stayed up all night and didn't emerge from beneath her blanket. Not even once.

Before her mother got home, she cleaned up the splinters and left only the broken rod on the floor. As she prepared the house, she decided not to tell her mother about her night. She concocted a lie in her mind, claiming she wanted fresh air but forgot to unlock the door. In her attempt to open it, she yanked hard, breaking the lock and splintering the rod in the process.

Naomi had learned that she had to do whatever it took to spare her mother's feelings. Since she could remember, Olga panicked over small things, which led her to become a paranoid wreck for weeks. And when that disappeared, something small would happen again, and her fears would lock themselves in with each other like a Russian nesting doll.

She repeated it. Over and over again, until the truth and her lie became muddled and she began to believe that she'd actually done it herself. How strange it is, she thought, that humans can believe the lies they tell about themselves.

Olga came home and immediately noticed the sliding door. Naomi was in the kitchen making her sunny-side-up eggs and a piece of toast — her Sunday morning ritual to welcome her mother home. Olga slammed her tote bag on the table, sending a few napkins fluttering to the floor, then ran over to the door, breathing heavily.

"Are you okay?" she asked frantically. "What happened? Are you okay?"

She began to whimper, no. No, no, no. Naomi stepped away from the counter and hugged her mother from behind.

"Shh," she muttered. "It's okay. It's my fault. I broke it."

"How? How did you break it? Why are you trying to go outside at night? Why are you--"

"Mamushka, please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you..."

"Damn it!" Olga said. She stomped over to the table and grabbed her tote bag. "I knew I couldn't leave you alone."

"Mom--"

"Don't."

Olga went to her bedroom and slammed the door. The eggs were burning on the stove.

*

Two days before the competition, Naomi submitted her manuscript on Llewelyn Moss. Haruka had proofread it and was particularly impressed by the way she braided in a 1910 Spanish “drug deal gone wrong” to compare to the murder of Moss. Naomi’s flippancy reared its head when Ms. Fin had reviewed it and complimented her. The whole “I’m just doing this for fun” thing, which was, simply put, a regression.

Olga had taken the rest of the week off from work, despite Naomi’s protests. The initial disagreement had died down, and the two of them were back to the normal, loving relationship they’d always had. Olga’s sleep schedule meant she was awake throughout the night, which she thought was advantageous given the home invasion. She hadn’t believed Naomi’s lie.

She knew. She knew that there was always a risk of Anton finding them.

So she sat on the couch all night and every fifteen minutes walked the house’s interior to ensure it was locked. A contractor had come and fixed the sliding door on Monday. Olga had him install an extra lock as a safety measure.

The memories of Anton were persistent. Those six weeks, he visited her at the motel, and the various, bizarre things he’d have her do that weren’t limited to just sex. The first night with the Remington was just the beginning.

Still, Olga didn’t want to confront the strange connection she had with Anton. It wasn’t romantic—not exactly. It was a mutual curiosity. Sometimes, after they performed the transaction, they’d speak to each other. Camus. Sartre. de Sade. Things that the two of them, until then, hadn’t had someone to talk about with.

She hadn’t had sex or formed any romantic attachments after him. She believed no man could ever truly satisfy her as Anton had.

Fear. Desire. Intellectual stimulation. These three things functioned in tandem with each other. Especially fear and desire. He’d taught her this, both physically and while quoting Bataille’s connections between eroticism and death.

These days, desire had waned almost completely, save for the occasional day when she needed to give herself release. In those moments, she only thought of Anton. Afterward, sticky and panting on the couch, she’d imagine herself in a therapist’s office venting about what she’d just done.

I still touch myself to the man I fear the most—the man who began our relationship through coercion—the first few times, not wanting it. The man I fear will come to hurt our daughter and me.

Isn’t that fucked up?

She waited. For what exactly, she didn’t know. Some days, she asked herself if she wanted him to come.

*

Haruka found Olga sitting four rows back from the stage.

An old man had just finished reading his manuscript. He'd droned on about his first car, which was so menial that Olga couldn't remember what the make or model was. Before that, a middle-aged woman had read her fiction about two lovers who had found their way back to each other in the last phase of their lives. Olga had heard sniffling and sighing and realized that there wasn't a dry eye in the auditorium, besides her own.

"Sorry, I'm late," Haruka whispered as she scooted past a couple sitting two chairs away from Olga. She smiled. "Naomi took me out for ice cream at a diner two blocks away from here."

Olga held her hand. "It's so nice to see you. I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too."

There was silence as the next reader got ready to take the stage. Olga glanced over at Haruka and admired her dark hair. Her perfectly symmetrical face. The way she bit her lip and played with her fingers when she was nervous.

"You make my daughter very happy."

"Ms. Lasochka?"

"I know something is going on between you two."

Haruka whipped her head towards Olga, who was looking at the stage and smiling softly.

Before she could speak, Olga said, "It doesn't bother me. At all. As long as you make each other happy...and not even just for her. I like seeing you happy as well."

Olga's grip on her hand tightened as the host announced the next reader. Both of the women smiled.

*

The next reader took far too long and slurred far too much. The women could practically smell the alcohol emanating from his mouth, even though they were sitting far enough away. The subject of the writing was completely indiscernible. He'd even ended early. Yeah. That's all I got.

The host took the microphone from the man's trembling hands and announced that Naomi Lasochka would be their next reader. Haruka's grip on Olga's hand tightened this time.

They waited in silence for Naomi to take the stage. A minute passed. No Naomi. The judges glanced at each other and then back at the host. She nodded and left the stage. Two minutes passed.

Olga let go of Haruka's hand.

"I thought you said you two were at the diner together."

They looked at each other. "Yeah, we were. She left about ten minutes before I did to get ready. I'm sure she's planning some grand entrance and--"

The host came back onstage, took the microphone with one hand, and fidgeted with her skirt with the other.

"Sorry, folks. It looks like Naomi didn't make it tonight. We'll move on to our next reader who..."

Haruka swallowed, and her heart pounded. She looked over towards Olga again, but the seat was empty.

She decided to take herself seriously on a Saturday morning.

While Olga slept on the couch, Naomi welcomed Haruka into her room to help her choose a piece of writing.

Haruka was taken aback by the scene before her.

Although she had been in Naomi's room before, the space had now transformed into a chaotic mess of scattered papers, binders, newspaper articles, and mystery novels since Naomi had committed herself to the competition. A half-drunk cup of tea sat on the bedside table, along with four empty water bottles. Her hair was dirty and resembled a bird's nest. For once, she looked more tired than Olga.

Haruka tiptoed around the mess on the floor and lay on her stomach on Naomi's bed.

"I don't know how you can focus with this mess," Haruka said. She kicked her shoes off and let them fall to the floor.

Naomi scoffed and sat down in her desk chair. "Don't criticize my creative process."

Haruka hummed, took a pillow, and placed it under her chin. "I'm assuming you invited me over here to choose a piece."

"Can't a girl hang out with the love of her life?"

Haruka stared at her, saying nothing. She broke the silence by rolling her eyes.

"...yes," Naomi said. "That's the main reason I invited you over. The competition is next Friday, and I'm stressed out."

"Next Friday? And you don't have anything picked out?"

"...that seems to be correct."

"Naomi..." Haruka groaned. "Are you even taking this seriously?"

"I am."

She put her wire-framed reading glasses on and sifted through some of the documents on her desk. She produced a green folder with "MOSS" written on it with a Sharpie. She held it up in front of her face.

"Do you know about the Moss case?"

"The Moss case?"

"Yeah. This guy Llewlyn Moss, was murdered outside of a motel in El Paso some years ago."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

Naomi removed a newspaper clipping from the folder and handed it to Haruka. She rolled onto her back and held the text above her face.

The local welder who went missing just after Thanksgiving was found dead in a motel in El Paso this week, along with more than a dozen others who died in connection with the incident.

Authorities are still investigating.

"Seems like just another shootout to me," Haruka said.

"Upon first glance," Naomi countered. "But there's more."

"Go on."

"I visited the archives at the town hall and took some notes on what I found there. Several articles reported that a handful of Mexican nationals were found dead near the Rio Grande around that time as well."

"Again, seems normal for that part of Texas."

"His wife was found dead several days later, with something resembling a gunshot wound on the forehead. But the coroner reported that it was strange. Not your typical wound. There was an entry and an exit, but no bullet left behind."

She continued. "Within hours of Carla Jean Moss', that was her name, killing, there was a gnarly car crash that left one dead in her neighborhood. When paramedics arrived, the driver of the car that was hit was nowhere to be found. All they retrieved from his vehicle was a tool that's used in slaughterhouses."

Haruka tutted. "Where are you going with this?"

"I want to present an investigative, creative non-fiction piece around the killing of Llewelyn Moss."

Naomi had always had this morbid curiosity that escaped Haruka, who couldn't even watch a horror movie without hiding beneath a blanket. It was probably the most serious thing about her. When she wasn't writing satire that incensed her mother and teacher, she was laser-focused on discovering things that people overlooked. Crimes. Cases that were closed and passed off because it's just Texas. If Naomi didn't want to go to college for writing or journalism (something she wouldn't dare reveal to the people who supported her), she'd want to be a private investigator or some mix of her two interests. Haruka looked at the short newspaper article again, considered it, and then sat up to hand it back to Naomi.

"I understand that this interests you," Haruka began. She tilted her head onto the headboard. "But aside from the time constraint, do you think you have enough information to make this interesting?"

Naomi closed the folder and placed it on the corner of the desk. "There is something I read that nobody has connected to the killing of Llewelyn and Carla."

"...which is?"

Naomi looked at Haruka seriously — a rare expression she reserved for special moments.

"I'm not sure how to articulate it yet. Also, I don't want to ruin the surprise."

*

After Haruka went home, Naomi spent the rest of the day reading historical texts she could braid in with the crime and visiting the archive to make sure she didn't have any loose ends. By the time she returned from the town hall, Olga was awake, panic-preparing a sandwich again.

"How is your manuscript turning out?" Olga asked as she rinsed her hands in the kitchen sink. Naomi plopped down on the couch and rubbed her eyes.

"It's going," she replied.

"Will you let me read it?"

Naomi turned her head and saw that her mother was glancing over with a soft smile.

"Not yet. I want it to be a surprise."

"Don't you want somebody to proofread it?"

"Haruka offered."

"Ah. How is Haruka doing these days? I haven't seen her in a while..."

"She's good. She was here this morning. You were out cold. I can't believe you didn't hear us come through the front door."

Olga swallowed and whipped around to wash her hands again. She ripped a paper towel from the dispenser and scrubbed the water off. Even when her hands were dry, she still rubbed them, her thin knuckles and palms reddening from the friction.

Naomi was right. She hadn't heard the two of them come through the door. Her face paled, and her mouth dried.

"Mom?"

"Well," she sighed. She placed her hand over her chest. "I'm glad you two are hanging out. I need to get ready for work now."

She hurriedly walked past Naomi to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. She double-checked the locks on the windows. Went into the bathroom and checked that too. Her breaths came out in small pants.

Outside of the bedroom door, Naomi stood with her head on the wood. She wanted to call for her mother, but instead, turned around and went to her own room.

*

Naomi was still up at ten o'clock at night, writing on her typewriter.

She was elaborating on her theory, specifically, on the murder of Carla Jean.

At the archive, she'd recovered the death reports of two ranchers--both of whom were killed along the interstate. Their wounds were the same. A blast through the forehead with no bullet recovered.

There was also a police call made before that. A deputy had arrested a man who had "some sort of oxygen tank" in the passenger seat of his car. His supervisor recounted a phone conversation he'd had with him while the man was in custody. A description: tall, brown hair, brown eyes. The license plate of the car. He had no ID on him and would not speak.

That deputy was found dead due to strangulation. The man escaped custody.

Just as Naomi was about to finish outlining, she heard a tree branch rap on her bedroom window. She stood and turned on the overhead light. She hooked a finger along the drape and peeked outside.

There was no tree there.

There was no wind. The night was warm and still.

With shaking legs, she made her way to the living room.

"Mom?"

No answer. Of course. Her mother was at work.

She turned the light on in the kitchen and felt the same warmth from the night come through the sliding door, which was wide open; the rod that fit on the lip to keep it locked, for good measure, was completely crushed. Splintered wood littered the tile.

Naomi's eyes widened. She quickly shut the sliding door and tried to lock it. But the lock wouldn't engage and hung loosely on its hinge.

She almost fell to the floor. She retrieved a roll of duct tape from the kitchen's junk drawer and put three strips on it — a flimsy attempt.

Wearily, she made it back to her bedroom. She should check the rest of the house, she thought. But her head hurt. There was a loud ringing in her ears. She couldn't even think. Instead, she crawled into bed and pulled the sheet up over her head.

Minutes passed.

An hour passed.