by Cj Omololu
“Thanks,” I say, feeling trapped. If I get up now, everyone’s going to notice. I look around the church at all the people crammed into pews and lining every wall, in some places two people deep. There are people my age and people who look like friends of his parents. As I turn back toward the front, I’m startled to realize that the coffin is set on a pedestal only a few yards from where I’m sitting. Shiny dark wood draped with flowers, it has another picture of Casey on a smaller easel perched on top. Thank God the coffin is closed—but if he got his throat cut, it probably had to be.
“Just tragic, isn’t it?” the woman next to me asks, dabbing her nose with a tissue.
“It is,” I agree, nodding slowly. I wonder if Alicia knows her too.
“He was just the best,” she says, shaking her head sadly. “And I can’t believe he’s gone.”
She slides toward me a couple of inches. “You know,” she says quietly, looking around to see if anyone else is listening, “they’re saying it wasn’t random.”
Now I look up at her. Her eyes are dry, but her face is still red and a little blotchy. “What do you mean?” I look around too. “Like he was targeted?”
She nods slowly, sitting back against the pew. “Nothing was taken. His wallet was in his pocket when they found him. But I can’t imagine why anyone would target him.” She sniffs. “Casey was an angel. An absolute angel. I can’t imagine who would want him dead.”
I can’t exactly contradict her out loud, so I just smile weakly and hope I look like I agree.
“At least he didn’t suffer,” she says, blotting at her eyes.
I think of the pool of blood by the driver-side door. It must have taken a while for him to die. “How do you know that?” I move closer so nobody can hear. “I thought he was … you know.” I can’t bring myself to say the words out loud, so I make a small slashing gesture at my throat.
“That’s just what the police told the media,” she says knowingly. She puts one hand on the back of my neck in the little divot where my skull meets my vertebrae, her touch so light, it makes the hairs on my head stand up. “Whoever killed him knew what they were doing. They plunged a knife into this soft spot right here. Cut his spinal cord clean in half. He died almost instantly.”
My mind forms a picture from her graphic description, which is worse than what I imagined just a few seconds ago.
“The cops have been spending a ton of time at the house,” she says. Her eyes dart to a couple of men in dark gray suits that are standing on the left-hand side of the church. “And I think those guys are plainclothes officers. I’ve been watching CSI from the beginning—Vegas, not Miami—and the killer almost always shows up at the funeral.”
I remember the cop car in the parking lot. “Why would anyone want to kill Casey?” I ask. I can actually think of a couple of reasons, but I wisely keep them to myself.
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” she responds.
My mind is reeling when the organ music kicks into high gear, and we all rise to our feet as the family starts walking slowly down the aisle to their seats.
The hearse is still in front of the church as I pull out onto the street. I barely remember anything about the funeral—one teary relative after another trying to make a sad joke or tell a funny story—because all I could think about was Casey’s last moments. I’d been with him only the day before. The thought makes me sick.
When I get to the main intersection, I quickly flip on my signal and turn right instead of left and head toward the freeway. I just need to see it.
I can tell which parking space was his before I even turn into the Cheesecake Factory parking lot. The bright yellow police tape is gone, but there’s a small shrine of plastic-wrapped flowers, soggy teddy bears, and burned-out candles leaning against the light pole where Casey’s car was parked. This shrine is like a wave of memories and emotions cascading into the empty parking space—memories and emotions that have absolutely nothing to do with who he actually was. Casey might have been someone’s son and someone’s brother, but he was also a wannabe rapist and a creep.
I let the car idle, and I look around, the images of that night flooding my brain—the misty orange glow from the streetlights; the anger on his face as he pounded on my window; the shadowy silhouette of him leaning on his car as I drove away. I look around the parking lot at the few cars that fill the spaces that were empty that night. Could someone have been hiding in the bushes over to the left? There’s still a faint rust-colored stain on the cracked asphalt, and I wonder what would have happened if the murder had been the night before. Would there be two shrines instead of just the one?
At the front of the lot, there’s a brown four-door backed into one of the parking spaces, and I see two figures in the front seats that make me uneasy, so I put the car in gear again. I can’t see their faces, but I can feel them watching me as I drive past their car and turn right onto the main street. I glance back as I pull away, but neither of them seems to move.
Suddenly I need to feel the mist on my face and hear the roar of the ocean in my ears. I hit the gas, and in half an hour, I’m pulling onto Eighteenth Street and into a parking space on the side of the street right before the sand starts. In summer, you have to drive miles for any kind of parking spot, but on a damp, foggy day at the beginning of April, I’ve got the place practically to myself. The cold, wet air creeps down the back of my neck as I walk toward the water, my feet digging into the narrow strip of sand between the two-story houses that stare blankly at the ocean. Just past the concrete retaining wall, the beach opens up in front of me, and it feels like I’m all alone out here. I slip off my shoes, the sand cold at first but then warmer beneath the top layer as I walk toward the ocean. I sit down at the edge of the dry sand, where it slopes down slightly to the constant pulsing of the water crashing in wavelets on the shore before slipping and bubbling back into itself. I can feel the cold and damp seep through my dress, but I don’t care as I stretch my legs out toward the waves. Out past the break there are half a dozen surfers in the lineup, all alike in their slick black wet suits. They sit on top of their boards as the waves bob underneath them, lifting them up and then setting them gently back down on the flat surface of the water. I wonder who’s out there on such a cold day, but I can’t see anyone well enough to tell. Locals, I’m sure of it. Nobody else comes to surf off Eighteenth Street. All the tourists go farther north to Breakers or Moonlight, and that’s just fine with us.
I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my chin there. The houses that line the beach are lit up inside against the dark day, and that makes it seem even colder and more deserted out here. The faint smell of smoke rides on the damp air, and it reminds me of Christmas, only a few months ago, when everything still seemed possible. Now I’m just empty, like all my emotions are floating on the surface, waiting to be swept out to sea by the next big wave, leaving me blank and undone.
“Are you coming out too?”
I whirl around to see Zane with one arm over his shoulder zipping up his wet suit in the back.
He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m not exactly dressed for the beach. I stand up next to him. “No. Just watching. Isn’t it cold out there?”
Zane squints at the surfers in the distance. “You get a little brain freeze the first few minutes. Then you forget all about it.” He picks up his board. “You should come out sometime.”
Slater Connelly walks over with his board under his arm. “Way to go, bro! I heard the awesome news!” Slater is the definition of a surfer dude. If the turtle in Finding Nemo were human, he would be Slater.
Zane seems suddenly pleased and self-conscious at the same time. “Thanks,” he says quietly, looking down so that the curls in front hide his eyes.
“You’re getting on the ASP tour for sure!” Slater says, the look on his face showing his genuine happiness. “And winning that fifteen K.”
“I hope so,” Zane says. He glances around to see if anyone else is close enou
gh to overhear.
“What news?” I ask.
“Aw, my bad,” Slater says, grinning at me, his white teeth flashing in contrast to his deep tan. “I was totally interrupting here. Adios, bra!” He gives Zane a complicated handshake and then runs toward the breaking white waves, puffs of sand following his footsteps.
Zane turns back to me. “So, what are you—”
“What news?” I insist again.
He shrugs. “I got invited to an Association of Surfing Professionals junior tour event in Tahiti.”
“Oh my God, that’s awesome!” I say, punching him in the arm. “When?”
“In two weeks,” he says, a grin creeping onto his face. I can see how happy he is about it even though he doesn’t want to show it. “Dad’s pissed about me missing school, but I can’t let this opportunity get by me.”
“The ASP is huge,” I say, using up my knowledge of surfing in one sentence. “This could be your big break.”
“Maybe.” He nods slowly. “As long as I don’t screw it up.”
“You won’t.” Zane’s always been the most focused person I know. I can’t stop smiling at him. At least someone’s dreams are coming true.
Zane looks out toward the surf and then back at me. “Are you going to be here for a while?”
“No. I have to get going.”
“Okay.” He seems suddenly slightly awkward. “Well, I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” I call as he runs toward the surf. I watch as he leaps into the water and onto his board, his arms making long strokes in the waves so he can catch up with everyone else.
I sit for a while and watch the surfboards cut through the walls of water as the waves crest back toward shore. The wind is picking up a little, and the waves have a bigger head of white foam as they crash into the sand. Zane and Slater paddle furiously out in the dark water, then pull themselves up to ride the swell for a few feet before dropping off the backside. It must be nice to have nothing to worry about except catching the next big wave.
I take out my phone and stare at the email. Every time I see the subject line, I think back to the moment before Zane read it to me, back when everything was still happening. I’ve tried not to look at it, but I can’t stay away; I already have most of it memorized. We were humbled by your talents and achievements and by the commitment you demonstrated in all of your academic and extracurricular endeavors. Right. I can picture the look on Dad’s face when he gets home. The furrow between his eyes will be deeper and their usual light brown will be duller whenever he looks at me. I always loved the pride that was written all over him whenever grades came home. Twice a year we drive all the way up to Stanford to go to football games, each of us covered in Stanford Cardinal red. I’ve never disappointed him this badly.
Before I have time to think about it, I click on FORWARD, choose Dad’s name, and then hit SEND. Then I press DELETE. Now Dad can have the joy of reading the nicely worded letter with the Stanford crest that tells everyone once and for all that I’m not good enough. Because suddenly all of this seems much less important than it used to.
“Awfully fancy for a Saturday afternoon,” Ava says as I pass by her room.
“You’re always after me to make an effort,” I say, walking quickly into my room as I unzip the dress. Please, God, let her stay there. I don’t want to explain this right now.
No such luck. “Where’d you go?” she asks, leaning against my doorway.
I turn my back to her and pull on my yoga pants. When I turn back around, the bag I borrowed from her is open and she’s pulling out a folded program.
“The funeral?” She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “You went to Casey’s funeral?”
I pull my head into my sweatshirt, wishing I could just hide in here for the next few days. “So?” I finally ask, wrapping my hair up into a bun.
“Way to go keeping Alicia out of this,” she says.
“I didn’t go as Alicia,” I say. “I went as me.” Although, when I think about it, it didn’t seem to matter much. “Why are you being so weird about all of this? I wanted some closure, that’s all.”
“Closure? Why do you need closure? Did you go to the after-party too?”
I stare at her. “You mean the reception? No. I just came home.” I don’t want to tell her about stopping at the Cheesecake Factory, because I know she’ll only hassle me about that too. As shaken as Casey’s death has left me, she seems mostly untouched.
“Good.” She seems to calm down some. “Do you feel better now?”
“Not really.” I grab the bag she loaned me and walk out of my room, with Ava following.
“So, what was it like?” She almost looks eager to hear.
“The funeral?” I ask. “Big. Sad. You know—funeralish.” I pick my backpack up off the couch and put my wallet and keys from the bag into it.
She wrinkles her nose. “Was it an open casket?”
“No. Seriously, maybe you should have come with me.”
“That would have blown their minds, two of us together at once. Alicia au deux.”
I remember the gray-haired woman at the front of the funeral home. “I thought you said you’d gone out with Casey only a couple of times.”
“I did,” she says, distracted by her phone. “Why?”
“So when did you meet his family?”
Ava looks up at me and shrugs. “His family? I never met anyone in his family. Every time we went out, I met him somewhere. Alone.”
“Well, they sure seemed to know who Alicia was,” I say.
As I hand her the empty bag, I notice the message light blinking on the phone in the living room. I don’t know why Dad still has a house phone—almost nobody ever calls. I reach over and press PLAY. There’s a beep, and then a woman’s voice comes through the speaker. “This is Kate down at Leon’s Hair Salon calling for Alicia Rios. We got your message about rescheduling your appointment to Thursday at four, and it’s no problem. We’ll see you then.”
“That’s weird,” Ava says, shaking her head. “They must have looked up a different Alicia Rios and got this number by mistake.” She reaches over and presses DELETE.
“But there is no Alicia Rios here,” I remind her.
“I don’t know. People make mistakes all the time!” She sounds impatient. “Kind of funny, though.”
“Not so funny,” I say, my mind racing. One mysterious Alicia Rios sighting is a coincidence. Two is something else. “First the ticket and now the phone message. Someone’s screwing with us.”
“You’re just being paranoid.” She’s about to say something else when the front doorbell rings. “Cecilia’s out visiting her sister,” Ava says. “I’ll get it.”
I start to worry that it’s Eli. I had a good time last night, but I don’t want to admit that to Ava. Not yet anyway.
A few seconds later Ava comes skidding down the hallway. “You’re not going to believe who it is!” she stage-whispers.
“Is it Eli?” I ask, following her down the hall.
“Why would it be Eli?” she says, staring at the closed door. “It’s the cops.”
I pause as I reach for the knob. What are they doing here?
“Don’t get it!” she mouths.
“You’re being ridiculous. What if something happened?” I ask, thinking of Dad so far away as I pull the door open. Please, God, I pray quickly, don’t let it be Dad.
“Sorry to bother you,” the one in the black suit jacket says. “Are your parents at home?”
“No,” I say, my voice surprisingly shaky. I clear my throat. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. We’re just here to ask a few questions,” says the one in the green uniform.
“The department is investigating the death of a young man last weekend, and we’re following up on some leads,” the other guy says. My eyes wander to the big black gun that’s in the holster at his side. He glances down at a small screen as if checking his facts. “I’m Detective Naito, and this is Office
r Lawrence. We need to speak to Alicia Rios.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Ava giggles uncomfortably and says, “Alicia? There’s no Alicia Rios here.”
“This says otherwise.” Officer Lawrence pushes some buttons on his tablet and then turns it to us. It’s a copy of the license Ava got. The one with her picture and the name Alicia Rios on it.
He taps the screen. “And this is the correct address, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, but—” I start.
“Okay, okay,” Ava interrupts. “Alicia does live here, but she’s not home right now.”
“What? Come on, Ava—” I can’t believe she’s actually going to lie to the cops. She was right—everything really is on their cop computers.
She puts a hand protectively on my arm and squeezes in the universal sign for Shut up. “It’s okay, Lex. We don’t have to cover for her, because she didn’t do anything wrong.” She sends me a look, and at this point she’s taken it so far that I don’t have much of a choice.
The cops share knowing looks. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”
Ava shakes her head sadly. “I couldn’t guess. Alicia spends a lot of time in LA. With her acting career taking off, she’s not here all that much anymore.”
Acting career? We never discussed an acting career. Ava is going way off script.
Officer Lawrence checks his screen and then back up to us. “You girls look a lot like Alicia does in this DMV photo.”
I decide to let Ava handle this one too.
“We’re her sisters,” Ava says. She glances at me. “Triplets.”
“Identical triplets? You don’t see that very often.” He looks surprised and not entirely convinced.
“One in five hundred thousand,” Ava replies without missing a beat. I can’t believe she actually did some homework.
Officer Lawrence nods like he’s impressed. “So you’re one of only fourteen hundred sets. Congratulations.”
I study him carefully. He’s obviously not an idiot. I hope Ava knows what she’s doing.