Bury the Lead

by Mischa Thrace

  I pull my gaze from the depths and realize why.

  We’ve found Emma Morgan.

  The silence that follows the discovery is longer than I would’ve thought possible for a group this size.

  All around us, hands fly to mouths, to hearts, and over the eyes of the younger searchers in shocked horror. Ravi’s hands rise automatically, muscle memory propelling the camera up to create a barrier between his brain and the horror before his eyes.

  My hands do not go to my face, or my chest, or my eyes, but they do shake—just a little. I acknowledge the tremor and will it away.

  Emma is sprawled at the base of a large evergreen, a purple satin gown spilling out around her in shimmering waves. The hem of the dress, torn in one spot, has ridden up her calves, revealing the curve of slender ankles and bare, manicured feet. Emma’s toes are painted a shocking shade of lime green.

  The tremor in my hands returns, and for a wild moment, I want to rip off my Converse and put them on the dead girl’s bare and vulnerable feet.

  Ravi threads his fingers through mine and squeezes to the point of pain.

  Someone retches, and that’s the thing that breaks the spell. I tear my eyes away from Emma’s green toes, slam the lid on my emotions, and acknowledge the rest of the scene as chaos erupts around us.

  Sherlock dictates that we must not simply see, but observe, so that’s what I do.

  A single sheet of paper is tacked to the tree at eye level where it’s impossible to ignore, with a single sentence typed in large font: I am sorry this had to happen.

  A suicide note? It doesn’t seem possible. Not from Emma Morgan.

  Nothing about this scene makes a scrap of sense.

  Only the unnatural stillness of the girl convinces me that we haven’t stumbled into a bizarre high-fashion photo shoot.

  Which means it’s staged. It means everything here matters.

  My pulse is galloping, but I know the great detective’s methods. If there was ever a time to apply them, it would be now.

  Still squeezing Ravi’s hand, I start with the note because it’s the easiest to look at. The paper looks like generic copy paper, and there’s nothing special about the font. There are no obvious flaws that I can see in the actual letters that could link it to a specific printer. The objective part of my brain wonders if Maplefield PD even has the know-how needed to compare printer inks.

  No matter.

  The note is anchored to the tree with a single shining thumbtack. It could be the perfect surface for capturing a fingerprint, but it is also easy to wipe clean.

  Next.

  Next is hard.

  I want to be strong and stoic like Sherlock, unmoved by the human morass around me, but when I drop my eyes to Emma, it’s like Earth’s rotation speeds up and everything becomes unbalanced.

  So I break it into manageable bits, isolated parts of a whole too overwhelming, and work in sections—quickly, because wailing sirens split the mountain air, and our guide is already pushing us back, trying to preserve the scene.

  She doesn’t look like she’s sleeping because dead bodies never do, not really. But she does look peaceful. Her expression is neutral, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. There is no blood, no bruising, nothing to indicate head trauma or strangulation or anything remotely obvious. No froth at her mouth or vomit on the ground to suggest poison. Her dress has tiny spaghetti straps, which are intact, and a snug bodice with small tulle butterflies along the top, almost like something a child would wear. Her arms are bare and free of lacerations and blemishes. No, not quite free. There’s a slight smudge around the bicep of her left arm. A bruise? Dirt? I’m too far to know for sure.

  I keep going. Aside from a single tear at the hem, the dress is intact and clean. One leg is bent at an awkward angle but doesn’t look swollen. No bloodstains anywhere I can see, but the full skirt could be hiding anything.

  There is shouting from the path behind us and the sharp crack of breaking branches as the police swarm the area, jarring me out of my objective trance and back to the horror I’ve been cataloging. They shout orders to clear the scene and assign escorts to take us out of the woods, and I’m forced to leave with more questions than answers.

  Cassidy and I are silent on the way into school, and for once, I’m glad it’s Mom doing the driving. There’s too much noise in my brain to be responsible for my sister’s life today.

  “If you girls want to come home early, you call me. I’m home all day,” Mom says as we wait in the drive-thru at Dunkin’. She doesn’t even give us a hard time about our froofy coffee or ask if we want something extra; she just orders without question from years of knowing what we like. Though had she asked, I might’ve opted for a couple dozen shots of espresso.

  I barely slept last night, and I hate myself for it, because I can only blame part of it on getting my story posted. The rest was pure nerves—a complete failure in objectivity. It’s not like I’ve never seen a dead body before. I have two dead grandparents after all and an aunt who died of breast cancer when she was only thirty-two. I went to all the funerals, knelt by all the caskets, scoffed at all the makeup. The fact that Emma’s body had been unexpected and in the woods shouldn’t have rattled me like this. How could I ever hack it reporting from a war zone if a single corpse has me this shaken?

  An all-call went out last night, alerting parents that a student had died under unknown circumstances. Counselors would be available throughout the day, and any students who opted to stay home would be marked excused. Mom had tried to get us to stay home, but neither of us could face the thought of stewing in a quiet house. It’s better to go out, be among friends, and pretend things are normal.

  Cassidy’s morning crew is already waiting when we pull in, and the girls sweep her away before she can utter a proper goodbye. I don’t see Ravi’s car in the lot and worry he won’t show. He’s the one I need to get through this day.

  I’m about to go inside when I feel a hand on my arm. I turn and my mother wraps me in a hug that I first resist, then allow.

  “You don’t need to be the tough one all the time,” she says. “Just remember that.”

  “I’m good,” I say. “It’s not like we were friends or anything.”

  Mom smiles, but it looks sad. “My strong, brave girls. I don’t know where you get it.”

  “All the spinach,” I say, needing a joke, needing to not remember Emma’s pale, naked feet and empty eyes.

  “All the spinach.” Mom nods and climbs back in The Planet. “Call me if you want a ride. Really.”

  I wave goodbye, forcing myself to acknowledge the feelings—the feelings suck—and set them aside. With that, I lift my chin and start across the parking lot.

  “Ken, wait.” Ravi looks as haggard as I feel. I stop to let him catch up, and he throws his arms around me with such force that I nearly spill my coffee on us both. I adjust and squeeze him back, feeling my brain finally start shifting into order. I may have zero desire to jump his bones, but his hugs are pretty spectacular. I might’ve stayed here indefinitely if not for the sound of the warning bell calling us inside.

  Ravi plants a chaste kiss on the top of my head, then pulls back, taking my coffee and draining half of it in one long pull. I don’t even protest, because if he’s drinking my cavity-inducing coffee, he must be even worse off than he looks. As we head in, he pulls a white paper bag from his messenger bag and hands it to me without relinquishing my cup.

  The bag is stuffed to the brim with slightly crushed but still warm cardamom donut holes. They’re not my regular menu item, but he knows I adore them. “This is why you’re my very favorite human.”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Went in early with Dad.”

  “Same, only with fewer donuts.” I pop one in my mouth.

  Ms. Larson is still standing at the front door when we get there despite the warning bell having rung, and she sends Henry trotting over. I drop down so he can press his head into my chest, and I consider asking Ms. Lars
on if we can just walk him for the day instead of going to class, but I know other people will need his snuggles more than me. Emma’s actual friends, for instance, of which there are many.

  Ms. Larson gives us a sympathetic smile as we get closer, and I worry she’s going to try for a hug, but she just says, “I understand you both were there when Emma was found. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything you need or anything the school can do to help.”

  The principal looks like she’s aged a decade since the previous week, and part of me is struck by an inappropriate urge to ask if it’s easier this time or harder. Liam was more than anyone should have to deal with, but now it looked like he had only been the dress rehearsal. I don’t envy Ms. Larson’s job at all.

  “There’s going to be an assembly after homeroom,” she says, “and the counselors will be here all week. There’s no shame in talking to them.”

  I don’t say anything to that, because I most certainly won’t be talking to the counselors. I need to set the feelings aside, not wallow in them. But I don’t begrudge anyone who does differently.

  “Do you want to take Henry?” Ms. Larson ushers us inside. “I need to do the announcements. He can stay with you until the assembly.”

  “Yes, thanks,” I say and mean it. Ms. Larson points at us and tells the dog go, and he stays with us while she disappears into the main office.

  I sink onto the bench outside of the office, and Henry lays his blocky head across my thighs. Ravi plops down next to me.

  “Skip homeroom?” he asks.

  “Skip homeroom,” I agree.

  We lean into each other and pet Henry while a truncated version of morning announcements runs: basically, there has been a tragedy over the weekend, and everyone should report to the auditorium at the start of first period for an assembly.

  “Article looked good,” Ravi says. “Lots of comments.”

  I nod. “The shots from the search really helped.”

  “I have to tell you something.” Ravi’s knees piston up and down, and he clasps his hands on them to steady them to no avail. He won’t look at me, and it makes me nervous.

  “Okay,” I say warily.

  “I took her picture. When she was dead, I took her picture. I didn’t even think; I just did it, and now it’s on my camera, and I keep trying to delete it, but I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.”

  “I know.” I press my thigh into his. The jackhammering slows, then stops, but I keep my leg there. “I was with you.”

  “Does that make me some kind of pervert? I feel like a pervert. A ghoul.” His voice is tight, and he shifts away from me.

  “Oh god, Ravi, no. Of course you’re not a pervert. You reacted like a journalist. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  He shakes his head hard, like he might dislodge the image through sheer force. “I didn’t react though. I panicked. It just happened.”

  My heart physically aches for him. He’s not as good at compartmentalizing as I am. He might never be, but that’s part of why I need him. He’s my reminder of the human cost of what we cover. He’s my heart.

  “Maybe I’m not meant to do this,” he says. “Maybe I need to stick to happy, mindless portraits of kids with funny signs; shoot some weddings; take corporate headshots. I’d still make a—”

  “Stop.” I can’t bear to hear him tear himself down like this. “You are so much better than corporate headshots, and you know it. You are the most talented person I have ever met.”

  “Then why won’t this go away?” Ravi thrusts his hand out, palm down, where the shaking can’t go unnoticed.

  The vise on my heart gets tighter. I hold my hand out next to his. I thought my tremor had gone last night, but it began again, just a little, when I got to school. And it’s worse now, in the face of the raw emotion radiating off Ravi.

  “Same,” I say. I take his hand, ease it down to Henry’s waiting head. “Pet the dog. You think I didn’t sit up last night picking apart my own reaction? I did. And you know what I decided?”

  He doesn’t answer, but some of the tension has left his body.

  “This, the shaking, the self-doubt, it’s normal. And it’s not a sign of anything other than the fact that it was our first violent death. And it was someone we knew. Of course reporting on something like that is going to be hard. It’s supposed to be. It’s not something you should even have to do. It’s like when they don’t let doctors operate on their relatives because they think they can’t be objective. News flash, they can’t. This whole thing is the journalistic equivalent of that.”

  I scratch Henry’s ears. “We want our stories to make people feel things,” I say to the dog as much as to Ravi. “I think that means we have to feel things too, even if we don’t want to. The feelings just can’t get in the way of the story, and they didn’t. We told the story objectively, without making it about our own reactions, so that’s a win.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Remember that talk about not sounding quite so pleased to have this story?”

  “Doing it again?”

  “Doing it again.” He hovers his hand over Henry’s head. The tremble isn’t gone, but it’s lessened. He stands and offers me his not-quite-steady hand. I take it and let him pull me up.

  We bring Henry to the auditorium, sit him on the stage, and take seats in the back where we can watch everyone come in. I’m in journalist mode, already planning a story about getting back to normal after unthinkable tragedy.

  As classes pour in, Henry trots down the stairs at the edge of the stage and positions himself for optimal pets.

  “We should get some shots of Henry doing his thing,” I say. No one will complain about extra dog pictures, and I need to give Ravi something to remind him that he’s still a photojournalist.

  He nods. I watch as he extracts the camera from his messenger bag, looking for any sign of hesitation, but he steps into the aisle and drops to one knee to shoot at Henry’s level. When he returns, he scrolls through the images on the camera’s back panel: a wide shot of somber-faced students, four different hands petting Henry’s head at once, a girl hugging the dog around his fluffy neck. All the images are razor-sharp; his hands did not shake at all.

  There is none of the usual pre-assembly raucousness that marks most gatherings of the entire school. Even the teachers look apprehensive as they stand along the walls near where their classes are seated.

  Ms. Larson enters without fanfare and steps behind the podium. I switch my phone to record. She stares out over the quiet crowd for what seems like forever before speaking.

  “As many of you already know,” she says, voice steady but hoarse, “we suffered a terrible loss over the weekend. One of our seniors, Emma Morgan, was found in the woods at Stone Reservoir. It’s still too early to have all the answers, but a note was found at the scene that indicates she may have passed away from suicide.”

  Whispers and sniffles erupt around the echoing room, and Ms. Larson waits them out. I jot her phrasing “passed away from suicide” in a notebook in case we’re too far back for clear audio. I hate that phrase—passed away. It dances around the truth, the way all the euphemisms do: crossed over, called home, departed. It’s like no one wants to say the D-word, even though died is exactly what they did.

  “I tell you this not to upset you, but to inform you. I know rumors and gossip will be rampant in the coming days, and I want to remind everyone to keep their focus on what’s important: that we have lost a valued member of our school. My heart goes out to all of you. It is never easy to lose someone you love, especially when it is so unexpected and the person is so young. Emma was a vibrant light in the Maplefield community. She was an honor roll student, a talented soccer player, and a good friend. Her loss will be deeply felt by everyone who knew her. No one is expecting the next few days and weeks to be easy. Emotions are going to be running high, and you may feel things you don’t understand. We’ve brought in specially trained grief counselors who
will be available for anyone who wishes to talk, and they will be available for staff as well as students. There is no shame in reaching out. If Emma had reached out, perhaps she would still be here today.”

  “Whoa, victim blame much?” I whisper.

  Ravi doesn’t answer but raises his camera in time to catch Ms. Larson strike the podium with an open hand. Several students jump in their seats.

  “Suicide has become an epidemic in this country, and we need to stop being afraid to talk about it.” Emotion makes her voice raspy. “Do not stay silent. If you are suffering, say something. If your friend is suffering, say something. This is not the time to turn inward, but a time to reach out. Maplefield knows how to deal with hardship. We have been here before. We will find strength in each other, and we will hold each other up and hold each other close. Do not take anyone for granted. Be kind to each other. Be kind to yourselves. In the days to come, be there for each other. You are only as alone as you make yourself be.” Ms. Larson’s voice breaks, and she pinches the top of her nose.

  Ravi gets the shot as students shift uncomfortably in their seats. And then something happens that I would never have predicted. Victoria Melendez rises in the middle of her row, climbs over the legs of several students, and flies up the stage steps, where she wraps her arms around Ms. Larson. Ravi’s shutter clicks as they hug and cry for all the school to see.

  The rest of the day passes in a sort of haze. Bells ring, classes are attended, but there’s a pall on the school that makes it hard to concentrate, and it seems, hard to teach.

  In Journalism, Emma’s seat is conspicuously empty, and Mr. Monroe opens the class by asking if anyone has anything they want to say.

  Natalie Franco raises her hand. “I don’t think it’s right that they’re even reporting on this. It’s not anyone’s business how she died.”

  “Nah, that’s bullshit,” Jeremiah says. His head snaps around to Mr. Monroe. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to say that. But don’t the people got a right to know if someone’s dead?”