After You Died

by Dea Poirier

  The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Dea Poirier

  Cover and jacket design by 2FacedDesign

  ISBN 978-1-951709-41-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: available upon request

  First trade paperback edition July 2021 by Polis Books, LLC

  44 Brookview Lane

  Aberdeen, NJ 07747

  www.PolisBooks.com

  Trigger Warning

  This book contains elements of sexual violence, physical abuse, emotional abuse, psychological trauma, struggles with mental health, bullying, and suicide.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Books by Dea Poirier

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Acknowledgements

  Reader Letter

  Next Girl to Die

  Beneath the Ashes

  After You Died

  Whispers in the Dark

  This book is dedicated to every child who suffered at the hands of the Dozier school.

  I believe you.

  And I hope one day you find peace.

  If you’re anything like me, you never wondered what your girlfriend would look like as a corpse. For the record—she was just as pretty. Even though I remember nothing else from that night I remember her face, as beautiful in death as it had been every single day of her life. There were a million things I expected to happen once Olivia was my girlfriend, but murder never crossed my mind.

  Before

  January 1st, 1968

  Her long white dress whips behind her as she disappears into the trees. It lashes, like a flag caught in a hurricane. Instead of devastation, she leaves the flowers that she wove into her hair in her wake. The hot afternoon sun bears down on us. We’ve been out here so long, sweat glues my hair to my face. The wind carries the scent of a brush fire on its wings. My heart races as I chase after her, excitement buzzing in my veins.

  “Olivia?” The word seeps out of me, as slow and tired as I am.

  “The time to hesitate is through.” Her voice is high, beautiful; it rings through the trees. She’s been singing The Doors all day, thanks to my t-shirt. Somehow, even though she taunts me with songs, she manages to remain hidden.

  The trees swallow me. In the shade, the temperature drops a few degrees, but I still feel like I’m being boiled; that’s Florida for you, hot enough to smother you even in January. Masses of brown, green, and gray stretch before me, blurring into an endless expanse. Strangled beams of light root their way through the twisted branches above me; the sandy soil dotted with a patchwork of spots.

  Twenty feet in, there’s no sign of her—she’s vanished into the forest. I search between the trees for her white dress, her blonde curls. My heart thrums with excitement. When I run, the Spanish moss dangling above catches my hair.

  She sings again, but her words are lost amongst the trees. Between the words her laugh echoes in the distance, as high and delicate as a bird’s song.

  She loves this game. She’s always loved when I chase her. I’ll chase her forever. Deep down I know I’ll never catch her, never have her. I’ve been after her since we were little, but she’ll never be mine. Mom says the first time I ever said love, it was to Olivia. Three years old and she already had my heart. Fourteen years later, and every-single-beat is still for her.

  I slip in-between the trees like a whisper. For a moment, I see her, the hem of her dress catches my eye, then disappears again so fast, I’m not certain I actually saw it. I stop to catch my breath. With my back against a tree I gulp down air. The heat and humidity threaten to suffocate me.

  “Our love become a funeral pyre.” Her laugh sings through the trees. “Come on Asher,” she says in a playful voice. “You can do better than that.”

  Thirty feet away her round face pops out from behind a tree. Even from here, I can see she’s panting, but there’s a smile on her wide face. Her curls are limp, heavy with sweat, a few of the small flowers remain tangled in them. I push off the tree and dart toward her again. As soon as I move, so does she. She melts into the forest, disappearing as easily as a jaguar. I curse myself for not being faster.

  “Come on, baby,” she starts again, but her song dies.

  My chest is tight, a cramp tightening up just below my ribs. I open my mouth to call out, but to my right, a hint of movement pulls my attention. Someone runs beside me. A figure pops in and out as it weaves between the trees. I slow to get a better look, but only foliage stares back. Though I resume my chase, a tingling feeling claws its way up my neck, the heat of eyes burn against my skin.

  We’re being watched.

  A twig snaps behind me, I turn.

  Nothing.

  “Olivia?” My words are uneven, muted by the thunder of my heartbeats.

  A creeping feeling works its way through me and settles in my stomach, something bad— no, something terrible—is about to happen.

  Whoever is out there, the forest is keeping their secrets, for now. Slowly, I move between the trunks, over the protruding roots, and take the moment to catch my breath. Bark digs into my flesh, through my thin t-shirt, as I rest against a tree. My heart is unsteady, uneasiness floods into me.

  Another snap.

  Instead of looking, I push off from the tree. Olivia is painfully quiet. My breath catches in my throat, and worry strangles me. The air bites at my wide eyes, my mouth goes dry. Where is she? It’s rare a moment that passes without a giggle, or at least her egging me on.

  In the minutes since her laughter died, a pit has formed in my stomach, pushing a bitter taste into my mouth. Knots tighten in my guts, every second that ticks by is painful. My breath catches in my throat, my mouth opens, but I can’t find my voice to call for her.

  The air is cut by Olivia’s scream. Long, terrified, haunting. Whoever was watching me must have caught up to her. I have to find her.

  “Olivia!” The humidity rushes into my open mouth, the air thick in my throat. I swallow hard to clear it. Cold sweat beads on my flesh. Sickness wells inside me.

  She has to be okay. She has to. Has to.

  My feet
pound the earth. A yelp slips through my lips as my shoulder smashes into a tree.

  Where is she? I have to find her.

  In the distance, I hear sobbing. I slow. Carefully, I walk until the sound grows louder. I find her huddled on the ground against a tree in a clearing. She hugs her knees. Her white dress dirty, gathered up against her, like a wilted flower.

  The trees group together in a circle, leaving an opening nearly fifteen feet across. They grow into one another; I can’t tell where one ends and another begins. Above us, the Spanish moss is woven like a net. Soft tendrils of light pour in from above. I creep closer.

  “Olivia, are you okay?” I ask. My voice is low, my eyes take turns, surveying her and the tree line. My body is so tense, I feel like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point. I’m still painfully aware that someone is still out there. Someone watching us.

  Her hands muffle her cries. I lean over, and touch her shoulder gently. My gaze follows hers. That’s when I see what upset her. Atop the blanket of moss and leaves behind me, there’s a dead doe. She’s cut clean, opened up, skin peeled away from her organs. The entrails and blood spill onto the forest floor. Beside the mother, two pink preterm foals are decapitated. Shimmering splatters of red cling to the decaying underbrush.

  I’ve never been able to handle hurt animals, though I’ve seen butchered deer a thousand times; my dad has a penchant for hunting. I move in front of her to block her view, and my own. Pulling Olivia gently, I stand her up, making her face me. Brushing her hair out of her face, I lift her chin. Her lip quivers, and red veins snake through her eyes, making her irises an impossible shade of blue. Though I feel as uneasy, as unsettled as she looks, I hold myself together—for her.

  “Are you okay?” I ask again.

  Her full lips quiver. Pallor taints her features. The tears make her eyes puffy, the lids are tinged pink. She wipes her cheeks on her dress. Though she nods, it looks forced. All I want is to get her out of here. Away from whoever might have done this, whoever is still hiding in the trees. I put my arm around her, and urge her out of the clearing.

  Heavy footsteps creep closer; dead leaves crushed beneath their weight. I turn, and step in front of her, guarding her. That’s when I see Dominic’s wide goofy smile. His red hair glows, even in the dim light.

  “Hey, man!”

  I’m so tense, I nearly jump. I fall back slightly, brushing against Olivia. Next to Olivia, Dominic is easily my closest friend, but seeing him out here makes me uneasy. I exhale, anxiety escaping with my breath.

  “What are you guys doing out here?” He walks around the corpses, as if he were avoiding a rock. His gaze doesn’t move toward the bodies.

  I eye him carefully, trying not to see the gore. How does that not bother him? He didn’t kill them, there’s not a drop of blood on his clothing, though it still seems strange he’s not even a little bothered. Guilt swells inside me as questions about Dominic swim in my mind. Stop it. He’s your friend. Six months ago, right after school let out for the summer, Dominic’s family moved to town. We became fast friends—he has the same penchant for cutting class and sneaking out that I do.

  “Nothing, just out for a walk,” I say after far too long.

  Olivia reaches for me, her fingers curl around my hand. She pulls me gently. Somehow, even in this heat, her fingers are as cold as bones. The way she tugs at me, there’s an urgency, I don’t want to be around the deer any more than she does, but I’m tethered here between them.

  “Did you see who did this?” I ask him, scanning the trees before my eyes rest on him again. Something about the way that he stands only inches from the corpses tugs at me, but I ignore it.

  He shrugs, “Nope.”

  “It’s pretty fucked up.” I start to turn to Olivia, cowering behind me. The way she looks at him, it makes me ask, “What are you doing out here?”

  “Nothing, and come on man, it’s just a deer.” His voice has an argumentative edge, he kicks some of the underbrush toward the corpses and the thoughts swell in my mind again.

  Olivia pulls my hand again, the way she tugs, there’s panic in every movement. I look back at her, her light blue eyes are saucers. For a moment, her eyes move to Dominic, then she tenses. She flashes me a look, and I know what it means: we need to leave, now.

  “Later, Dom,” I say as I turn, but his hand wraps around my forearm, holding me back.

  “Where are you off to?” His words have more snap than a firecracker and he narrows his eyes.

  “Olivia and I have plans.” I jerk my arm out of his grip, and I give Olivia a little push, so she’ll start walking.

  He glares at me. “Of course you do. Have fun.” The way he hurls the words, he may as well have said, “fuck you.”

  I’m on edge as we walk back through the woods. We’ve walked these paths a thousand times, but this time feels different. Though I don’t hear any more steps behind us, I still feel like we’re being watched. Like we’re being followed. I hope Dominic doesn’t stumble on whoever hurt that deer, whoever is still out there.

  After we’ve made our way to the tree line, Olivia stops me. She looks back like she expected someone to follow us. Her skin is pale, a sheen of sweat clings to her brow, she won’t look at me when she says, “I think you should stay away from Dominic.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s something off about him.” Her voice drops. “I think there’s something wrong with him.” Her voice shakes, and she clears her throat while wringing her hands.

  I shake my head. “No way. He can be weird sometimes but he’s great, really. He’s harmless, I promise. Okay?” Though I say the words, the way Dom acted—didn’t act—it gnaws at me.

  “Why do you always have to see the best in everyone, even when the evidence is right in front of your face?”

  When I say nothing, she looks at her feet. I can see she’s not satisfied. But she says, “Fine,” anyway.

  When it comes to Olivia, fine never means fine.

  We walk back to my house, the light fading behind us. Tonight she’s got to go home, we can’t spend the rest of the evening together, like we usually do. She heads toward her house, and I head toward mine. Before I reach the door, someone runs up behind me. My heart jumps, I turn. She grabs onto me, giving me a quick hug. With her face against mine, I feel the warmth of her breath on my neck.

  “Good night,” she whispers as she nuzzles me. A kiss nearly as soft as her whisper grazes my cheek. It was barely a kiss, barely anything really. But it’s the first one. To me it feels like mountains moved, the world shifted. As her footsteps lead her back to her house, I stand in shock.

  Before I head inside, I take one last look toward the tree line. I swear, for just moment, I see a face and red hair watching us from the woods.

  I wish I’d known in a week, Olivia would be dead, and I’d be a murderer.

  After

  March 16th, 1968

  The tension in the room is as thick as blood. It makes sense though, when you think about it. After all, it’s what covered me when they found me. Every part of me was sticky, heavy with death. My white knuckled hand gripping a bloody knife—at least that’s what they tell me. In my mind, that night is a void. Since losing my memories of that night, something else in me has shifted. My mind is tainted by visions, memories that aren’t my own.

  Even though I know I’m losing it, I still didn’t do it.

  I couldn’t have killed her or anyone else, could I?

  It changes nothing, though. After all, they have evidence. Even if they didn’t, they’d still find me guilty. Someone has to be guilty.

  But there’s no way I killed her.

  Five voices ricochet around me like gunshots; I’m caught in the crossfire. While they shoot back and forth, negotiating my fate, my mouth is a thin line of nothingness. The parts of me that aren’t numb from emotional exhaustion feel like they’ve been wrung out, beaten down. The insides of my mouth are chewed raw, and my mouth tastes like copper. I try to t
une out their voices, to count the ticking clock on the wall, but it’s impossible.

  My mother, father, and lawyer sit on one side of the table, next to me. On the other side, the district attorney and assistant district attorney stare daggers at me. After each and every offer they make to my father, they glare at me, as though I should thank them for letting me live. My appearance here is a formality. A frustrating one at that. No matter what I might say, or not say, they’ll make a decision for me.

  I’d rather have the electric chair. When offered the option of rotting in prison, or living each day crushed beneath the questions—death would be a welcome escape. Living the rest of my life with this guilt, with all these questions, is not an option. Each second I’m awake, I feel like I’m one second closer to ending it myself.

  “You can’t send my baby to prison. I’ve already lost William to ‘nam. I won’t lose Asher too,” my mother wails in hysterics. Her beehive is expertly plastered to her head, and though she’s flailing her arms as she speaks, it doesn’t move an inch. Her baby blue dress is perfectly pressed, the white collar stiff against her shoulders. There isn’t a single thing about her life that’s amiss—except me. It hurts to see her like this, her eyes puffy, nose running. I can’t imagine what it must be like for her, the possibility of losing two children to situations she’s unable to control. Thinking about it makes the weight of the guilt turn from cement in my stomach to lead.

  Ever since my brother was drafted, my mother has spoken of him like he’s dead—lit candles in the window, a flag at half-mast in our front yard, she even wears a black veil every week to church. She’s a woman in mourning—but my brother isn’t dead, and he isn’t going to die. He writes her every week, though she doesn’t tell us about it. I’ve seen the letters she has squirreled away in a box with his picture. I don’t call her on it, how can I? One son in ‘nam, the other in a cellblock. If this is how she copes, if this is how she holds herself together, I won’t take it from her.