“Dahlia, you’re not supposed to eat mussels with your hands. It’s not polite.”

I sigh. “Sorry.” I then picked up the ridiculously small mussel-eating fork.

“Miranda, she’s fine,” Joey says. He then nods to me, telling me to continue.

It's been two days since Deena's funeral and Joey, mom, and I were sitting at Baratie, a French restaurant in the West-End of Ambrose. It was Lacy’s favorite restaurant, and we were here because it was her birthday today. She would be turning twenty-six but of course instead, she is, as she has been for the past seven years, wasn’t here. And as usual, mom was being her usual Stepford wife self. 

When James was around, my mother thought he was too good for me. She had told me many times, including the first few times I brought him home. Obviously, I never told her about what James was really like. And when Lacy was around, mom used to enter her and me into beauty pageants when we were little, but it was always with the same results for both of us: I was second runner-up. Homecoming princess, not queen. Not bad, but not good enough to attract and keep a man who can take care of you for life.

  I’m not sure if that’s ever been stated as a goal or anything, but it’s what we were supposed to do. My mother failed with my biological father, I failed with James, and even golden girl Lacy, of course, seemingly failed with Daniel. I guess something about the Jones girls doesn’t stick. Luckily though, I never did drink the kool-aid.

It was always like this. Lacy and I were always in competition, to see who was better, with me always being in second place. In the eleventh grade, I had won the Presidential Physical Fitness Award four times. . .Lacy had won it five times. And in tenth grade. When I got second place in the seventh-grade spelling bee with my dyslexia; Lacy got first and in fifth grade. If I was on the yearbook staff, in all of the school plays, and was taking five AP classes my senior year, Lacy had already done all those things her junior year and even put together a marathon for leukemia research.

It always seemed that no matter how high my GPA was, how hard I worked or studied, or how many extracurriculars I had managed to smash into my schedule, I never quite reached golden girl Lacy’s level of perfection.

“Can you excuse me?” I jumped up from the chair. “I’ll be right back.” 

***

Outside, I sit on one of the wooden benches. I put my bag onto my lap and dig out my accessory bag, getting out my silver flick lighter with an Ace Of Hearts symbol on it, and my case of cigarettes. 

“You shouldn’t be smoking, you know,” a voice says. 

I turned my head to see Randy Rojas leaning against the wall. He was also wearing the Baratie's waiter uniform. “What are you doing here?” I say, as if I didn’t just figure out why he was here.

“I work here,” he simply says. 

“Oh,”

“Do you mind if I have a bit of that?”

“You quite literally just told me not to smoke.” I hand it over to him anyway. 

“You all right?”

I shrug. “I guess. It’s Lacy’s birthday and Baratie was her favorite restaurant.”

“Oh.”

We sit in silence for a minute before Randy looks at the time on his phone screen. He hands the cigarette back to me and I stomp it out.

“So, do you think it’s time we go back?” he asked. 

“After you.

***

A few days later, I walked into Ambrose’s diner after classes. I wasn't even sure if she’d recognize me. It has been over seven years and Lacy and her had a mega fight the year prior to her disappearance. It wouldn't hurt to try though. 

“Hi,” I say, walking up to her. 

“Hey, Dahlia.” 

So, she did recognize me. 

“Yeah.” I slid myself into the booth across from Jade. “Thank you for reaching out about Lacy, and I know you and Lacy are friends.” 

“Were. Past tense,” she corrects me. “Even before she. . .disappeared. I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but I am not surprised she ended up like that.” 

“What do you mean? Weren’t you best friends. . .well, up until the year before she disappeared.” 

“Right. We were.”

“Why did you say that? Why did you fight?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.” 

Jade sighs and puts her phone face down onto the table in front of her. “Fine.” She pauses. “Look, Lacy wasn’t the golden girl everybody thought she was.”

“What do you mean by that?” 

Jade sighs again. “She had problems. The year we had that big fight, she thought Kelly Addams was flirting with Daniel.”

“Really? Lacy never struck me as the jealous type.” 

“You may have been her sister, but you didn’t really know her, if you know what I mean.” 

“Yeah, I guess.”

 “You and her had a seven year gap between you, right?” 

“Yeah. So, what did she do to Kelly?”

“She sent around her nudes.”

 “Holy shit.” 

“Yeah. She thought that was proof or whatever. Daniel even let her check his phone randomly but obviously he never cheated. They had a big blow-up and I confronted her about that and she was nonchalant. She didn’t even defend herself, just said she did what she had to do.”

“So, she did have problems?”

“Yes and seemingly big ones. She would always tell me she wanted to get out of Ambrose. Away.”

“Away? From what? Who?” 

She shrugs. “I’m not really sure, she was always vague about it and if I asked too much, she would shut me out.”

“Okay? But you didn’t have any clue?”

“Not one. Hints here and there but other than that? Nothing. Just that she wanted to get away from Ambrose. And that she got a new job.”

“The Double R Bar?” 

Jade shakes her head. “No, I mean, yeah, she also worked that job but she always worked a second job. She said that Double R didn’t pay her enough, especially as she worked only part-time. At first I thought she was, well. . .I don’t if I should say, you are her sister still–”

“It’s fine. Tell me.”

“If you insist. I thought that she was. . .I thought her second job was prostitution. It wasn’t, but you know, it’s not everyday a nineteen year old girl shows up randomly with over two-hundred dollars of physical cash without doing sex for money, you know? Especially after Kevin Cameron.”

“Kevin Cameron?”

“Yeah. She used to just hang out with him with his friends. I did too but I got some weird vibes from him and tried not to stay long and not be alone with him. I never took anything from him and he never tried anything. But. . .”

“But what?”

“But when I was over one day, I found a photo of Lacy behind a poster in his bedroom. It had fallen out from behind it and I picked it up.”

“. . .What kind of photo?”

“A nude-ish one.”

“Nude-ish?”

“She was standing in her bra and underwear in the photo.”

“And Kevin had this photo?”

“Yeah. I think it was meant for Daniel or something and somehow, someway, Kevin found it and decided to take and keep it for whatever fucked up reason.”

“Fuck, okay.” I let out a breath. “So, did you know what her second job was?”

“Yeah. She sold drugs for some guy.”

“Wait, wait, wait–? Lacy sold drugs? For who?”

“Some mechanic, um. . .” Jade thinks for a minute. “I think his name is Bobby Sinclair or something. Nothing hard from what I heard, unless you’re specific but yeah. Mainly pills and weed. Uppers.” 

Holy shit. But then again, I should have known that. 

“Do you know if she took any?”

“God no. She was, besides the whole jealousy and drug dealing thing, was straight edge. She never even wanted to be around pot smokers.”

“Do you think Danny knew?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to go with no but who knows.”

“Where did she even sell them?”

“At parties around town.”

“Thanks,” I say. 

“Sure.

***

Ray looked at me once I told him all about my visit with Jade. “Holy fucking shit.”

“That’s what I said.”

“So, Lacy, your sister, was dealing and selling drugs for Bobby Sinclair? Ambrose’s mechanic?”

“Sounded like it. Jade said she mostly sold at parties.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re thinking somebody at one of the parties could have maybe killed Lacy?”

“Yeah. And maybe it could even be connected to. . .Danny and Deena.”

“This is too crazy.”

“Agreed,” I say.”

“How are we going to do that though? It’s been well over seven years and anybody who knew that Lacy wasn’t the golden girl has moved on, doesn’t really remember what exactly went down, or just doesn’t want to be included.”

There’s this saying: bad things always come in threes. 

The first was the Ambrose Bayou killings. The second was the thing with Daniel and Lacy and finally, the third was, apparently, Deena Lance’s murder. 

“I think a boyfriend did it,” suggests Jodes. 

We’re on the quad, eating, and still talking about our plans for Halloween and the topic of who could have murdered Deena Lance had been brought out. 

“She didn't date,” I point out. 

“Sure, but who’s to say she wasn’t involved with anybody?” Chris asks. 

I shrug. “Ambrose is a small town, you can't do anything or do anybody without everybody in your business.” 

Jodes nods. “Sure. . .but what about the parents?” 

“Dark much?” I say. “I mean, it would make the most sense. Think about it. Parents are too controlling, their golden child wants to break out and be normal now that they’re in college but they catch her with somebody who is quote, unquote, distracting her, and the parents snap and kill her.” 

“I guess but the Lances aren’t like that.”

They really weren’t. I met them only two times and they seemed normal and Deena never said anything. But then again, we were just classmates, acquaintances, but still.

“Hey,” Chris shrugs. “Everybody’s a suspect. Who’s to say. Every family has their secrets.”

***

Throughout the day, students are pulled out of classrooms for questioning and  for nearly fifteen minutes Ms. Blake, my English teacher, had been droning on and on about motifs in the recent book we’ve been reading.

“Colors can describe and be placed for any type of reasons: to show what they feel at the moment or to show danger or coldness or calmness.” 

I had not been not paying much attention to Ms. Blake’s morning lesson, my mind kept drifting off when suddenly, I heard my name being called and I sat up in my chair straighter. 

“Dahlia Amber, could you tell us what the color blue may signify in a piece of media?” 

I nod. Ironically, I had on my blue high-top converse today. “Blue has both positive and negative meanings. It could symbolize coldness or sadness and depression or it could symbolize a motif of a character connected to water.” 

She nods in approval. “Right.”

Once Ms. Blake went back to talking about color motifs in the media, my mind began to wander dreamily again. Just as I looked outside, I noticed somebody. A man. A man who was currently gazing directly at me. An too familiar man. . .James? 

I shake my head and shake away my thoughts before looking again and of course, nobody, least of all James, was standing on the college’s quad. 

I must be going crazy.

***

A few hours later, I'm sitting down in the chair across from officer Khatchadourian and Ambrose’s police chief, Ward Hardy.”

Hardy begins taking notes. “Ms. Amber, where were you last night, around seven-thirty?”

“I was at Carla Dunne’s house, babysitting her son Mike. Chris Higgins was there too.”

“What was your relationship like with Deena Lance?”

“We know each other from school. We talked a little outside, but we always hung out in school, like for projects and stuff like that.”

“Does she have any enemies?” Hardy asks.

I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”

“Records show that she had called the Dunne house last night, what did you talk about?”

“She called me, saying she was freaked out by her house. She just wanted to talk to someone, I guess. We also talked about James. My boyfriend – ex-boyfriend.”

“James Horne?”

“Yeah.”

Khatchadourian and Hardy look at each other.

Hardy clears his throat. “Why did you break up?” 

I shrug. “He was showing signs of being an abuser. He attacked me once.”

“I can see that,” Khatchadourian states, motioning toward the bruise on my neck.

“Speaking of James Horne, we haven’t been able to contact him. His mother said she hadn’t seen him since last Saturday. She said he was going to visit you.”

“Really?”

“By the look on your face, it makes me think you didn’t know this.”

“Yeah. . .I broke up with him just a week prior, after he attacked me. He kept calling and texting me but he suddenly stopped.”

“You haven’t been in any type of contact with James Horne?”

“No, sir. I deleted and blocked his number after I broke up with him. So, if he tried, it wouldn’t have gone through.”

“Right,” nods Hardy. “Do you know if Deena Lance was seeing someone?” 

I shake my head. “No, not that I know. She was a year ahead of me but we did share two classes so we only really talked inside of the classroom and would partner with each other for a project if I didn’t have Jodes or Chris in the same class.” 

“Right.”

“But I know she didn’t date. She told me that she didn’t want any distraction and wanted to graduate at the top.”

“So, she never dated?”

“Nope. Not that I know. She never told me anything but I wouldn’t be surprised since we weren’t really friends.”

“What do you mean by that?” asks Khatchadourian.

“I mean, we were only acquaintances. We were friendly but you know.”

“Right.” Khatchadourian quickly writes something down.

“Has she ever said anything about someone threatening her? Or anything like that?”

I think for a minute. “No. To be honest, I was surprised she even called. Like I said, she told me her house was giving her the creeps and she felt watched but she did enjoy horror films but yeah.” 

“Okay, thank you, Ms. Amber.”

***

After my classes that day, I make my way down to the gymnasium where my theater teacher, Ms. Salvatore, with a clipboard in her hand, is looking at the students currently practicing their lines.

“Ms. Amber, good to see you. I hope you had an. . .okay day? With everything that has happened?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“I am confident in your abilities to get your lines right, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

With Ms. Salvatore nodded, I nod back before going into the dressing area and changing into my character, Prospera, costume, and going out on stage and standing with the other students doing this play.

“Okay, people, The Tempest is set to premiere in a few months or so and we are yet to be ready. Half of you don’t know your lines or can’t remember your lines while the other half do. Do it from the top and do it perfectly and maybe i’ll let you all out early.”

Surprised but pleased murmurs begin before we get into our places and start the play right from the top, just like she said to do.

After we do it flawlessly, Ms. Salvatore is true to her word and lets us off early and when I'm making my way backstage to the dressing room, I run into nobody else but Randy Rojas.

“Rojas?”

Randy gives me a wave. “Hey, Jones. What the hell are you wearing?”

I look down. I was still wearing my Prospera costume. “I’m in the play,” I state, motioning toward the poster with a photo of me in said Prospera costume on just below the play’s big bold title.

“Oh. Well, you look. . .amazing. I almost didn’t recognize you?”

“You mean to tell me, I don’t look amazing everyday?”

“No, no, I just mean–”

I put my hands up before laughing. “I’m messing with you. I know I look amazing everyday. Anyway, what are you doing here? I thought you. . .dropped out.”

Randy nods. “I did, yeah, but I'm picking up Sam. She's on the A.V team.”

“Alright, well, nice to see you. I have to go, see you around, yeah?”

“Right.”

***

Thirty minutes later, me, Jodes, Chris, and the rest of the Ambrose soccer team, the Blue Jays, are waiting for our new Coach. 

Hell of a time to start.  

The two wide double gym doors open and she walks in. It’s her first day; we all look at her when the gym’s large doors open, our heads tilted. 

The New Coach.

She has tanned skin, chestnut brown hair and holds her head up, proud, as she makes her way to the middle of the gym. All of us are slouching, afraid of giving her anything but eyes glazed. Our heads slung down, making our shoes appear more interesting than anything. 

I hear mumbling from Colleen Otis and Carmen Hodek.

“How old do you think?”

“Can’t be more than thirty, maybe? She looks like she just graduated college.”

With her back straight like a drill officer and wielding a rough gaze, her eyes scanning the staggered line. She’s judging us. She’s judging each and every one. Trying to find a weak link. 

Hands behind her back, the whistle dangles between her fingers. “Hello,” she says in a firm voice. 

No need to raise it, of course, she already proved to be a force to be reckoned with.

“I’m Coach Maybank.”

Before she can even continue, she spots the JV Freshmen, Stacy Hitch, on her phone. In a flash, Coach is right there, grabbing Stacy’s phone and throwing it. The phone skitters across the floor, spinning madly before stopping right when it hits the entrance doors. 

I can see Stacy’s jaw shaking. Coach doesn’t look angry exactly, it looks more of a look of boredom. No, It’s a dismissal.

“You girls, twirling your hair, on your phones with your sad little texts.” She shakes her head. “Ten, twelve years ago, it was still folding notes, passing them in class. This is just as fucking sad. No, this is sadder.”

After her semi introduction, she drills us. Hard. We run tumbles and keep our claps tight and our roundoffs smooth. The bleacher sprints are the worst. Almost punishing. I can feel my whole body shuddering, almost like I might die from the pain of it but I don’t stop, I keep going. 

When she decides we have had enough, she lines us up again. She goes down the line, looking at all of us before stopping at Aria Jennings. Coach’s suddenly reaches for the spot on Aria’s stomach and plucks the baby fat. “Fix it,” Coach says, “we don’t do this.”

***

Aria sobs in the locker room after as she is keening over the toilet bowl. Jodes Perks and I rolled our eyes at the sight.

“She can’t say things like that, can she?” Aria stutters through tears.

Surely Coach can’t tell a girl, a sensitive, body-conscious, barely out of her teen, girl, to get rid of a little baby fat can she? Oh, but she can. She does. She did. Coach can say anything.

After minutes of Aria wheezing, I give her stomach one hard kick with my right foot. “Got no gag reflex,” I say, coldly.

Jodes nudges me, grinning. “That’s not what her boyfriend says.”

The door to Maybank’s office opens and she peaks her head out. 

“Amber, come see me for a minute.”

“Sure, Coach.”

I close the door behind me as Coach flicks her cigarette out onto the pavement outside. 

Her office was just like how you’d picture a basic coach office. Her desk has somehow a mix of a lot and not a lot of stuff on it. One includes a photo of her, and another woman –who is probably her wife, judging by her wedding ring on her left ring finger– and a younger girl, her daughter most likely, who looks to be about four or five. 

She motions toward the security cameras that look out into the gym. “Took me a week to notice they weren’t working because they weren’t plugged in.”

“Yeah. Our last Coach, Coach Matcher. The gift that keeps on giving. . .like herpes.”

Maybank snorts before plopping a vanilla folder onto the table. “So, you’re the captain, huh?”

“Yeah.”

She nods. “I’ve read about you taking the team to nationals. Keep up the good work, okay?”

“You got it.”

***

The next day, I had no classes and the forecast called for a chilly morning, and I found myself going to a house. 

1421 Ackerman Drive. 

I don’t know what compelled me, but I found myself making my way up the cobblestone path and up the porch and knocking on the door. 

A second later, the door opened. “Hello?” Randy said, holding the door half open, his hand folded over the side. 

“Um . . .” Oh my god. C’mon, Dahlia, say something! “Uh. . .” 

“Hello?’ Randy said again. 

“Oh, um, sorry, hi.’ I did an awkward half-wave and tried to smile but I'm sure it looked way too forced. 

“Hi?” 

I shake my head. Why was I being so awkward? “Hi, Randy,” I say. “What’s up?” 

Randy doesn’t say anything else for an uncomfortably long time. 

I cross my arms and wait for him. 

Randy looks me up and down with a raised brow. “Amber, what are you doing here?” 

“I. . .” I sigh and trail off. “I wanted to check up on you. You know, because of. . .everything. I just realized we never really. . .talked, even though our siblings were. . .like. . .dating.”

“Oh, um. . .okay? I think?” He steps out, leaving the door open. “Do you want to come in?”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, you’re not. Parents are both gone.”

“You sure?” “Yeah. I'm just hanging out with my sister.”

“Oh, okay.”

I nod then I follow him in like it’s no big deal with me also trying to act equally nonchalant. Sam, Daniel and Randy’s younger eighteen-year-old sister, is leaning against the kitchen counter when we get inside. 

“Sam, you remember Dahlia Amber, Sammy, you remember Lacy’s sister, Dahlia.” 

“Yeah, of course. How’s it going?” Sam asks with a wave. 

“All right,” I answered. 

Sam nods before smiling and looking at Randy. “Ella es bonita.” 

Randy seemingly blushes and nudges her. “Shut up,” he hisses. He then turns back toward me. “Sorry about that, D, let's go to the kitchen.”

When we get to the kitchen, which is quite nice, I have no idea what to do next as I shrug off my jacket. I’m completely out of my depth here and I'm hoping Randy doesn’t notice my discomfort. 

“Would you like some. . .tea?” 

“Yes please,” I say. “With sugar, please.”

“Gotcha.” 

As Randy gathered the cups and began making said tea, grabbing a kettle and digging through a jar of teabags. It is here that I realized that I have never seen Randy smile. Though, I'm not sure if Randy gets it. Or maybe he does, I guess. I can’t help but wonder if I could have done the same if it had been my sister accused of murder like Daniel Rojas – breeze through five years of my life, my head still high, still living in this town and never smiling. Then I think of my sister, laughing with Daniel behind the coffee counter in a way she never did with any of the other assholes she dated. 

“So your parents aren’t in?”

“Nope.” He took a sip of his tea. “Mom is on business and my dad has a nine-to-five.” 

I look at my watch. Sure enough, it was only 11:02 A.M. 

“And even if they were, you wouldn’t be. We try not to talk about Danny too much, you know? It upsets mom.”

“I can imagine,” I say quietly. 

It didn’t matter that seven years had passed; this was still raw for both me and Randy. For both our families.

“And it’s just not that he’s gone. It’s that we’re not even allowed to grieve for him. And if I were to say I miss him, it would make me some kind of monster.” 

I shake my head. “I don’t think it does.” And truly, I didn’t. Even if Daniel did do it, it doesn’t mean Randy is also a killer.”

“I don’t think it does either, but I’m guessing you and I are in the minority there.”

“I’m sure there are more people than you think that believe Danny is innocent. I know it.”

“I hope so.”

“Hey, are you going to Deena’s funeral this Sunday?” 

“. . .I don’t know. . .”

“Why? It’s not like you killed her.”

“Too soon.”

“Sorry. Seriously though, you should come.”

“I don’t know. The thing is. . .Danny and Lacy are still fresh and I don’t think I would be welcomed.”

“They’re assholes,” I state. “Don’t worry about them. You’d be paying your respects.”

“You’re not wrong,” Randy says.

“So, you’ll come? Obviously I can’t promise it’d be a party but. . .”

“You know what? Yeah, I will.”

“Great!” I then looked at my watch. “I actually have to go. Nice talking to you, Rojas.”

“You too, Captain.” 

***

That Sunday, it’s Deena's funeral and I wore a simple black blouse and black pants with black loafers. 

Deena’s funeral is spurning up all sorts of memories, which is odd because, of course, we never even found her body so we couldn’t even bury her. We just have a tombstone with 1993-2013 carved on it and a memorial bench where people put candles and other things on it in “memory” of Lacy. 

Inside the All Saints Church, there was a big framed photo of Deena in the center of the room. Deena’s parents, Mark and Charlotte, were wearing the typical funeral attire but they had pink ribbons pinned on.

I leaned over to Jodes, who had helped the Lace’s put together the funeral. “What’s with the pink ribbons?”

“For Deena,” she says. “They said it was her favorite color.”

I nod. I knew, for a fact, that it wasn’t. It was black.

If Deena Lance was a true southern bell of Ambrose, a town that demands utmost femininity in its fairer sex, she'd have had pink, purple, or other feminine favorite color, but she didn’t. She cut her hair short, she wore t-shirts, pants, All-star Converse, and played rough with the boys when we were in middle school. Maybe that’s why we got along so well.

***

Outside, after the funeral, I spotted her. Emma Layne.

Emma Layne, the forty-three-year-old reporter and journalist, had been a thorn in my side since Lacy and Daniel. Last time I checked, she was currently writing a book entitled Small town romance about Lacy and Danny. The book, of course, was all bullshit. Filled with bullshit lies and even bullshitter theories. One even included me killing Lacy myself because I was jealous. 

And I've hated her ever since. 

I take a breath and prepare to go past her and move on, but she catches on. 

“Dahlia!” she calls out, giving me a wave. 

Shit.

I sigh and turn around. Emma had her camera man in toe and one of those large reporter microphones in hand. She gave me a smile and signaled for the camera man to start filming. 

“Hi, Emma,” I say. 

“Hi, Dahlia. How’ve you been?”

“I’m good, how’ve you been?”

“Good,” she nods. 

“What do you want, Emma?”

“I just wanted your opinion.”

“About what, exactly?”

“About Daniel.”

“What does Deena have to do with Daniel?”

“Maybe it’s connected.”

“You’ve already bothered me and the Rojas with this, Emma.”

“Sorry if I want to find the truth.”

I laugh. “The truth? Your “truth” is bullshit. You know Daniel didn’t kill Lacy! Her body wasn’t even found!”

“But yet evidence was found in his car!”

“Because she drove it frequently! Of course she did! Danny and her were dating!”

“Still. That was enough evidence.”

I scuff. “How’s the book coming along?”

“Great. Should be out in three months.”

“Great. I’ll look for it.” I go to turn and walk away but Emma just has to get the last word.

“No worries, I’ll send it to you.”

Without thinking, I turn around and punch her right in the jaw. She falls backward but her camera man catches her.

***

Once I finally managed to get back to my car, I noticed right away something on the front hood. It’s a picked stem of flowers. Black Dahlias, it looks like, from the petals around it and the plucked thing of flowers are tied together with thick blue braided cord. 

I’m at the Stop-N-Go, a mom and pop store, where you could get beer, chips, soda, and any and all snack food. The Stop-N-Go was also a place where the troglodyte football players all went to buy their beer and where the freshmen would get wine colors from the grim-faced man behind the counter. 

I watched as Randy Rojas walked up to the register. 

“Just these please,” he says, placing down a can of orange soda and a small bag of chips. 

I continue to watch as the woman, who I recognized as Natalie Davis, face folded with disgust. Nonetheless, she scans the items but continues to glare at Randy with cold eyes. A reaction that I–And Randy– was all too familiar with. 

“Six-eighty-nine,” Natalie spat. 

Randy pulled out a ten dollar bill but when he tried to give her said bill, Nat cringed and withdrew her hand sharply, the bill falling to the floor.

Something in me snaps and I march right up to the counter and to stand at Randy’s side. “Hey! Do we have a problem?” 

Randy looks at me in shock. “Dahlia. . .don’t,” he says quietly. 

Excuse me. . .Natalie,” I say. “I asked you if we had a problem?”

“Yeah,” Nat said. “We do. I don’t want him touching me.” 

I laugh. “I think it’s safe to say he also doesn’t want you touching him, either. Stupidity and being a pompous asshole might be contagious.” I then quickly dig my wallet out from my bag, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and slamming it onto the counter. And as I make a hasty exit, I shout, “keep the change!”

***

Outside, I take out my case of cigarettes and my lighter before lighting the cigarette. 

Randy soon comes out after me, both his items all in a bag. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says. 

I shrug.” Natalie’s a cunt. Don’t listen to her.”

“I. . .uh,” Randy rubs the back of head. “Thanks for paying and everything though.”

“No problem,” I say. “I’m sure you would have done the same thing. Daniel would have done the same.”

“Yeah, he would have.”

***

That night, a storm rages on as I hear lightning could be seen and thunder is cracking. I had told Carl Dunne, his mother being Carla Dunne, the woman I am housesitting and babysitting for, that if he finishes his homework before eight-thirty, I will let him stay up an hour later. 

Heading into the living room and saw that the clothes that were in the laundry basket – that I also brought out half an hour ago – hadn’t been folded yet. I see Chris Higgins sitting on the couch, not even acknowledging me. 

“I told you to fold the clothes half an hour ago,” I state.

Chris looks up from the television. “Sorry, D, I got distracted.”

Rolling my eyes, I turned to look at the television, looking to see what she was watching. I again roll my eyes at the cheesy horror movie. I then noticed a big red stain on her white shirt. 

“You’re still wearing that?”

Chris shrugs. “Not my fault that asshole from Westerberg got me with red paint. I couldn’t change, I had to work late.”

Sighing, I grab my bookbag, pulling out a simple black t-shirt. I toss it to her. “Here. It should fit since we’re almost the same size.”

“You’re such a mom.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Chris goes into the bathroom and changes into the clean shirt before coming out. As she goes to say something, she is cut off by the phone ringing. I give her a ‘don’t try anything’ look before going over to the table and picking up the phone.

“Hello? Dunne residents.”

The voice on the other line asks, “Dahlia Amber?”

I immediately recognized the caller’s voice.  “Deena?”

“Yes!”

Deena Lance is what I like to call a school friend, a person who you don’t hang out with outside of school but in school or in classes, you paired up for projects, sat with each other, and any other things you might do with a friend.

“Hey, Deena! What's up? How did you even get this number?

“Oh! I got the number from Brian Harris; he told me you would be babysitting Carla Dunne’s kid tonight with Chris and well. . .I'm at my parents, and I’ve been. . .hearing things.”

This shouldn’t surprise me because I knew that Deena’s parents’ house was in the middle of nowhere.

“You’ve been hearing things? What kind of things?”

“Just floors creaking, and I swear I had closed the back door. It's honestly creeping me the fuck out.”

“The Ambrose Strangler is going to get ya!”

Right. The Ambrose Bayou Strangler. He was a Ambrose serial killer that had killed about eight women about eight or nine years ago. He would abduct them before strangling them and leaving their bodies in the bayou. Unsurprisingly, he was never caught.

“Oh, haha. Very funny. Anyhow, how've you been? Heard from James yet?”

I indistinctly start to rub my fading bruise on my neck. James Horne was my asshole of an ex who wouldn't stop trying to call me but now he was radio silent.

“Nah. Thankfully.”

“Good, anyway, I was wondering if you had the notes for Mr. Jefferson's class? I missed yesterday and I need to pass or else my parents will have my ass.”

As I go to respond, I hear struggling noises before the line goes silent.”

“Hello?”

Huh. Weird.

Figuring it was just the storm that knocked out the power, I put the phone down before going back to talking to Chris.

***

The next morning, I had already been up hours before my alarm went off. I already did my morning Monday run, took a shower, and got dressed.

Turning back to my room, my gaze fell onto my room and some of my childhood crafts and mementos I never got a chance to toss or box for attic storage. My walls were a light blue with a black carpet in the middle of the old wooden flooring that came with the old house and lace curtains with blinds covering my windows and the window seat. The window seat itself looked out into the driveway and half of the front yard with its graveled path that splits from the garage and backyard and had two blue velvet pillows and a blanket for when I lay there. The bedroom walls were covered in posters from various bands, movies, shows, and games: Sally Face, Jeff Buckley, and a couple of bands I was a fan of, including Fire Walk, and Creepypasta. Alongside those were middle-school crafts, a few stuffed animals, including a stuffed bear James had given me for an apology gift. 

I remember how careful and contained I always had to be around James. I even kept my hair long because I knew he liked my longer hair. 

I still miss him. I do. But I don’t miss that. 

I guess the rotten apple really does fall from the same tree.

Rotten to the core. 

***

In the kitchen, mom was burning something on the stove and my step-dad, Joey Wright, was watching T.V. 

“Good morning,” I say, quickly grabbing an apple. “Sorry I don’t have time for breakfast.” 

Both of them stopped what they were doing and looked up at me. 

“Peach,” mom begins, “you can’t just go off without eating. You need your protein—” 

“I’ll get a doughnut before school,” I quickly state before turning to go. 

“But–” 

I closed the behind me, cutting off my mom and dad’s distant protests, and stepped out onto the front porch. 

***

The Amber house–I would never, ever, call it the Wright house, no matter how long my mother was married to Joey Wright. I also didn’t care if he was Ambrose’s District Attorney– was huge with two stories, five bedrooms, two bedrooms, and having both a large backyard and front yard. The house itself sat on a very steep hill at the very edge of our small town of Ambrose. You can drive up the cracked old driveway to the top, where a porch keeps cars from getting wet. Or you can park at the bottom of the hill and walk the sixty-three stairs to the top, clutching the rail to the left.  

Chris Higgins and Jodes Yamada were waiting for me, both sipping mango bubble tea from a clear plastic cup. Chris handed a third cup to me, I thanked her, and we started walking down the street, and began talking about our plans for Halloween. 

I met Chris first during middle school and then we met Jodes at soccer camp in the eighth grade. While I decided to stay at home during college, Jodes and Chris became roommates and between becoming blood brothers, or blood sisters, we’ve been tight ever since.

“I say vote for going to New Orleans for Halloween,” says Jodes.

“But Daniel Hubbs is having a Halloween party and I want to go.”

“I vote we go to New Orleans,” I say, “I am getting tired of the same thing every year.” 

“Thank you, D! See,” Jodes says, nudging Chris. “See, D agrees.” 

“Hey! I’m Switzerland.”

“Sureee,” Chris says. She then nudges me. “Looks like your mom set up the Halloween decorations early this year, huh?”

“What do you mean?” Jodes motions toward a white outline of a chalk body. On it were black flower petals. “Not ours,” I say. “Must be a prank or something.” I then shrug before tossing the Black Dahlia flowers into the grass and shuffle away the chalk with my foot.

***

The first person to greet me on the Nockfell’s quad is Kevin fucking Cameron, and he does it by grabbing the front of his pants with his left hand and pointing toward me with his right. Every small town has its asshole jackass, Kevin is ours. 

“Climb on any time you want a real man,” he leers, thrusting his hips while his lackey, Cal Julian, cackles behind him. “Satisfaction guaranteed.” 

I scuff and roll my eyes. “First off, herpes-fully-loaded, gross,” I say loudly. “Second, in your fucking dreams.” 

“Sure.” Cal then smirks, his eyes travel up and down my body, making my skin crawl. “The offer still stands though.”

Jodes rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Cameron.” That’s when I noticed just how much more crowded the quad was. And that fact there were police cars and reporters all around. “What the hell happened?” I ask. 

“What?” Jodes asks. 

I motion toward the cop cars and reporters. 

“Oh shit. I don’t know,” Chris says.

I quickly go up to a random girl and tap her shoulder. “Do you know what is going on?”

“You don’t know?”

I shake my head. “No.”