The Contradiction of Solitude (24 page)

The star.

“Elian, you want to get some lunch? We could go somewhere new. There’s that place over on Orchard that’s supposed to have the best wings in town,” Tate offered.

I shook my head. “I’m going to Denny’s. I’m meeting Layna.”

Someone made a noise. I looked up, my face suddenly hot.

“Excuse me?” I said steadily. Loudly.

“No one said anything, man,” Stan protested. Nathan was the smart one, he kept his mouth shut.

Margie rolled her eyes and left the room. Tate shook his head and returned to his task. No one said anything else. And I felt it. Them pulling away. The distance increasing.

I was losing them.

I was losing the game I had been playing for a long, long time.

I was ready to be defeated.

“You look tired,” Layna murmured, eating the seasoned fries one at a time.

One. Two. Three.

“I feel tired.” My phone was vibrating in my pocket. It had been going nonstop since I had met Layna thirty minutes ago.

I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was.

The calls weren’t reserved for the nighttime anymore. They were coming more and more frequently.

I wondered why she needed to talk to me so badly.

I tapped my fork on the table in a rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Elian. Stop it.”

I put the fork down and tried to eat. I was having a hard time keeping up my appetite lately.

“Maybe you should go home. Try to get some sleep,” Layna suggested. And I liked that idea. If she came with me.

“Will you come home with me?” I asked her. She looked up through her lashes. Never smiling. I wished she would.

“I have to work later. I can’t.”

I started tapping the fork on the table again. “Can I go to your place? Wait for you to come home?”

Layna reached out and took the fork from my hands and put it beside her utensils. “Eat something. You’re losing weight. You’re not taking care of yourself. Tell me, Elian.”

Tell me, Elian.

I picked up a fry, my favorite, and put it in my mouth. Chewing. Swallowing. Sick.

“You want to go to my apartment?” Layna asked, dipping another fry in her ranch dressing.

“If that’s okay. If not, I’ll go home. I really just want to sleep for a while. You’re right, I’m not getting enough rest.” I couldn’t think. Layna was right, I just needed to sleep.

Layna chewed her fry and looked at me. I felt pinned by coal black eyes.

“Okay. Go to my place. Get some rest. I’ll be home this evening.” I felt relieved. I felt better. I picked up the fries on my plate and put them in my mouth. A handful. Choking as I swallowed.

Full.

From the inside out.

I didn’t like Layna’s apartment. I’m not sure why I had wanted to come there so badly. I could get no sense of Layna Whitaker in these walls. Not in the used furniture or ugly dishes.

I let myself in with the key Layna had given me and I turned on the lights. I was glad that the nosy Mrs. Statham hadn’t rushed me as soon as I had walked into the building.

I kicked off my shoes and walked farther into the apartment. The air smelled like Layna. A scent that was otherwise impossible to describe.

My eyelids felt heavy, and all I wanted was to crash.

I wasn’t sleeping at night. When I had first moved to Half Moon Quarry, the quiet had been exactly what I needed. I felt at home there in a way I hadn’t felt in many, many years.

But in the last month, I’ve felt strangely despondent. I felt restrained. Like the walls were closing in. The whispering specters that plagued me at night were too loud.

I didn’t find comfort in their faceless voices. Now they were my prisoners and I didn’t know how to break out.

My phone buzzed in my pocket again and I pulled it out, seeing the text.

I’m here. Always.

I shut off the phone. Not wanting any more calls. No more texts. I needed to be left alone.

But I couldn’t relax.

Maybe I needed a drink. Some hard liquor should do the trick. I went into Layna’s kitchen and looked in her cabinets. There was no alcohol in the place. I settled on a tea bag and boiling kettle.

I started to root through the drawers, looking for a spoon. Layna was a minimalist. She didn’t do clutter. She didn’t seem to hold onto meaningless items.

So it was with surprise that I opened the drawer closest to the bottom of the cabinets to discover it crammed full. A bulging folder was shoved in, paper peeking out on all sides, not able to hold it all in.

I shouldn’t.

But I did.

I pulled out the folder, forgetting about the kettle that whistled on the stovetop.

“Curiosity killed the cat, Elian,” she warned, and I knew she was mad. She was always mad at me lately. Always angry. Mom said she was just being a teenager. I didn’t know why that mattered.

“Where are you going?” I asked her, not giving up. I wanted to know. She was my big sister. She got to do stuff that I didn’t. I was curious.

Like a cat.

“Mind your own business,” she huffed but then she smiled and ruffled my hair. I pushed her hand away but smiled too. I was too old to be treated like a baby. But I didn’t mind when she did it. She was the only one.

“You’re only twelve, Elian. You don’t understand grown up stuff,” she said and I rolled my eyes.

“You’re not a grown up either, you know. And you’re only four years older than me,” I reminded her.

She didn’t say anything else, and my curiosity was still there. I wanted to know. Where she went when she left and where she planned to go next time.

“You’ve met a boy,” I sing-songed, knowing she hated it when I said things like that.

“Shut up, runt,” she said but not in a mean way. I loved my sister.

Amelia…

I opened up the folder and saw the photo of a young girl right on top. She was pretty but not smiling. She had long, dark hair and dark eyes. It was impossible to see the color in the black and white newspaper clipping.

February 2, 1995 No answers in cold case

The Randolph County police department is still looking for information in regards to the kidnapping and murder of sixteen-year-old Hailey Gold. The body of the teenager was found over a year ago just outside the town limits of Dayton, her throat slit and her hands severed from her body.

I flipped to the next print out. Another picture of another girl. A teenager. And a newspaper article from almost twenty years ago detailing a similar murder. A slit throat. Severed hands.

And there was another girl. Another article. Six more in total.

My eyes went fuzzy and my gut clenched. Why did Layna have these?

I kept flipping through and stopped when I came to another picture from a newspaper. This one was of a police sketch. Hand drawn and rudimentary but I knew it all too well.

The nautical star.

Points and lines exact. A copy of the one on my back. Of the one on Layna’s hip.

Beside the drawing was the headline:
On the hunt for The Nautical Killer.

The Nautical Killer.

“What are you doing?”

I didn’t startle. I didn’t jump. I continued to riffle through the papers in the file I had found stuck in a bottom drawer in my girlfriend’s kitchen.

Layna yanked the paper away from me and closed the folder. “Why are you snooping through my things?” She sounded flustered.

Layna Whitaker was never flustered. But she was now.

“What is all this? Why do you have all of these?” I yanked the folder out of her hands and dumped the dozens and dozens of printouts onto the counter, shuffling through them with my hands. I turned over pictures. Girls with sightless eyes staring up at me.

“I don’t get it. Are you writing a book? Are you some sort of serial killer junkie? What the fuck is this?” I was yelling. I was getting worked up.

I was getting angry.

Layna licked her lips and stared at the girls. The pictures of dead women.

The Nautical Killer.

“Why do you have that star on your back?” she asked suddenly. I hadn’t been expecting that. She blindsided me.

“What?” I asked. My chest ached. My head hurt.

No…

She pulled up her shirt and yanked down the waistband of her skirt, tracing her own star with her finger.

“I know why I have mine. Why do you have yours? Tell me the truth, Elian Beyer.” Her soft voice was my unraveling.

Falling.

Falling.

A.

Part.

“Why?” It was a broken word. Strangled. Torn.

Why?

Layna Whitaker, my obsessive focus, calmly stood there, her fingers tracing the lines of that hateful, horrible star. Impassive. Unmoving.

Waiting for me to tell her my secrets.

Secrets I had always kept.

“My sister. Amelia,” I let out in slow, painful bits.

Layna dropped her hand, her shirt once again covering the tattoo. “Your sister,” she repeated.

Heartbeats in my ear. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t think.

“I saw the star. Out the window. On his arm. She went with him. Away. Never came home.” Short, choppy sentences. Not making sense.

What was I saying?

Hide!

Run away!

Can’t handle this! Not now. Not here.

Not with Layna.

“Your sister went with him.” Layna stepped toward me, hands out stretched. Reaching for me. I backed away.

“Who are you?” I asked. Knowing.

Knowing.

“I’m his daughter,” she whispered, half in pain, half in relief. Tinged in something else. Joy?

“Daughter,” I repeated, my tongue thick and too big for my mouth. Lies, all lies. Nothing but lies.

Layna continued to reach for me.

Touch me…

“I’m his daughter. Him.” She bent down and picked up a newspaper article that had fallen on the floor.

The Nautical Killer.

“You’re his daughter.” I shook my head. I was having a hard time understanding.

Falling.

Falling.

A.

Part.

“I’m his blood.” Her eyes were full of tears. Red and wet, hanging on her lashes, refusing to fall. She wiped them away and they were gone. Never were.

I mourned the loss of her tears. They were mine in a way that she never would be.

Not now.

Not now.

I pushed past her and ran to the door. The devil behind me. The monster shouting my name.

“Elian! Wait!” Panicked. Layna was panicked.

I needed to leave.

Too much.

I had to go.

“Elian!”

I was gone.