Bury the Lead

by Mischa Thrace

  He knew his sister could hear him muttering his fervent prayers to an unresponsive God, because she offered to beat up the monsters for him, just to get him to go to sleep. He begged her not to. He couldn’t take a repeat of the last time she’d come to his aid, and begged God to intervene instead.

  Finally, He did.

  His divine intervention came in the form of a massive growth spurt. Six and a half inches and thirty pounds in the span of a single summer, a voice that deepened and a chest that widened to accommodate it. The insides stayed the same, and the hair was still too bright and too bushy, but the body itself was a revelation. This new six-foot frame couldn’t fit in a locker if you broke every bone in it.

  After the talk with Jacob, I text Kylie for a meetup. I have a slew of follow-up questions for my favorite Irregular, but Kylie doesn’t answer. I wish that surprised me. When Kylie wants an audience for her latest drama, there’s no getting rid of her, but when the tables are turned, she’s nowhere to be found.

  I wonder if it’s nice to have the world revolve around you like that.

  After I drop Cassidy and Bryce at the barn—and extract a promise from the latter to take Cassidy somewhere classier than Jacob’s party—I head to The Donut Hole. I greet Mr. B and duck behind the counter, grabbing a strawberry shortcake donut from the case and making an iced coffee before going back to the kitchen, where Ravi is up to his elbows in soapy water at the sink.

  “Research date?” I ask.

  “Oh god, yes.” He shakes the suds off his hands. “You’re a hero among mortals.”

  “I know.” I eat the donut while he gathers his things and tells his father we’re off to the library. Mr. B gives him the same raised eyebrow Ravi has perfected but lets him go. Teasing accusations of parental abandonment follow us out the door.

  “I think the only reason he even had kids was to have ready access to child labor,” Ravi gripes.

  “You don’t see Priya standing over a pile of dirty dishes,” I point out. “Just you.”

  “Because I’m not the princess.” He climbs into the passenger seat.

  “Because you don’t actually mind doing it. Dude, your dad’s awesome. Seriously. You’re lucky.”

  He doesn’t argue because he knows I’m right.

  At the library, we wave to the circulation librarian and go right upstairs. Silas gets us set up in the research room, and we get to work flicking through the old files. I can’t believe the amount of nonsense that qualified as news back in the day. Weeks passed where the most exciting stories featured record-breaking pancake breakfasts and antique car shows. Sure, there was plenty of actual news—local politics, arrest records, and the like—but there was more filler than I would’ve expected for a print paper. It’s one thing to devote an online gallery to the town’s Halloween parade, but it seemed like a waste of actual print space. I guess it was different back then though, before sharing such pictures was as easy as opening Instagram.

  Most of the sports section could double as the school newspaper since ninety percent of the articles in that section are Maplefield High stories. I skip as much of that and the classifieds as possible—I can’t even imagine having to use classified ads now that we have the internet at our fingertips—but some of it still jumps out, like a group photo of Maplefield students lined up in neat rows, rifles slung across their chests.

  “Holy shit.” I freeze the page so Ravi can see. “Did you know Maplefield had a shooting team? Did you know shooting teams were even a thing?”

  He looks up from his laptop to examine the image. “That’s terrifying and fascinating in equal measure.”

  The photo, taken in 1956, shows thirteen white boys of varying ages, identically clad in button-down shirts tucked into belted pants. They’re confident, poised, and completely at ease with the weapons they hold.

  “Can you even imagine that today? Deliberately giving a bunch of teenagers guns to use at school-sanctioned events? That’s crazy.”

  Ravi squints at the image, a single finger at his lips. “Okay, I don’t know if I’m making this up because I’m looking at that picture, but I think I remember a rumor about a shooting range in the basement of Maplefield. I think it’s under the original wing. I thought it was an urban legend. Like the curse. But maybe not.”

  I shudder. “I’m so glad this isn’t a thing anymore.” I make a mental note to look into it more if and when I need to fill space on the Monitor. It wouldn’t be hard to do a contrast-of-cultures thing.

  I page through three more issues and say, “I haven’t seen a student death, disappearance, or alien abduction in almost a decade. I think it’s gotta be James Blackwell or the crash kids that mark the start of our curse.”

  “Unless there were other quieter disappearances. Runaways and shit.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve seen what they used to call news. I think a runaway would qualify, simply for the novelty.”

  “That’s fair,” Ravi says. “So, we have a start date. That’s a lot of blanks to fill in.”

  “To potentially fill in. I figure we research backward, year by year, and see how far back we can go. We’ll hit a wall at some point, probably way before James. Plus, we’re not just looking for disappearances, but for mentions of the curse itself. When did people start calling it a curse?”

  Ravi closes his laptop. “So we’re on to the talking to people part of the research?”

  “We are. I think we should start with Emma’s parents. I’m on the fence as to whether we’re calling her cursed or not, but either way, we need to know more.”

  “Same cover story we’ve been using?”

  “Yup. No reason to mess with what works. Plus, that may actually be our story.”

  “Fair enough. You don’t have Cassidy tomorrow, right? We can go after school.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  In journalistic lingo, doorstepping is the act of, well, showing up on someone’s doorstep. Usually someone who doesn’t want to talk to you. Doorstepping the Morgans so soon after their daughter’s death makes me feel a little squirmy inside, but I acknowledge the unease and set it aside. I have a job to do. Or, if not precisely a job, an investigation to complete.

  If most murders are committed by the people closest to the victim, the Morgans are as likely suspects as Owen is.

  Ravi and I go side by side up the stone walkway, Ravi’s camera banging his ribs with each step. He has it on a long strap, slung unobtrusively under his arm where it will be easy to access but not distractingly conspicuous.

  I do the honors of ringing the bell, and the shrill tone pierces the air on our side of the door as much as inside the house.

  Minutes tick by with no sound beyond the echo of the bell, despite the car sitting in the driveway. I lean on the bell again. Yes, someone may be sleeping; no, I don’t care if I wake them.

  I’m about to give the bell a third ring when the curtains on the window nearest the door part to reveal the pale face of Michael Morgan. I smile at him and seconds later hear the lock on the door snick open.

  I start talking as soon as Michael opens the door, not giving him a chance to send us away. “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Kennedy Carter, and this is Ravi Burman. We’re from the Maplefield Monitor, which is the school’s online newspaper. We’re working on an end-of-the-year feature about Emma and were wondering if you would be willing to talk to us?”

  “Yeah, I know who you are,” Michael says. He doesn’t invite us in. “Isn’t it a little early for an end-of-the-year story?”

  I plaster an anchor desk smile on my face—open and nonthreatening. “It’s a print edition, so it takes longer to publish. We need to have all the stories done early so we can format it and get it printed.”

  “And you’re doing a story about Emma?”

  “We are. If we could come in and talk, I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

  Michael looks ready to shut the door in our faces when a voice from inside calls, “Sweetie, who
is it?”

  Michael rolls his eyes. “No one,” he shouts. “Kids from Emma’s school.”

  “Is that your mother?” I ask.

  “I don’t think you should be here,” Michael says. “It’s too soon.”

  “Mikey, don’t stand there with the door open,” Mrs. Morgan says, coming into view behind her son. She’s so gaunt her skin seems a size too small for her skeleton. “Let them in. You’re friends of Emma’s?”

  I can’t bring myself to lie outright to this shattered-looking woman. “We go to Maplefield. We run the school’s online newspaper and want to do a feature about Emma for our end-of-the-year print edition. Like a memorial.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet.” Mrs. Morgan shoos Michael aside and holds the door open. “Please, come in. I’m afraid I don’t recognize you. What did you say your names are?”

  I introduce us both, and we follow her inside. The house is dark, the blinds closed against the bright afternoon sun.

  “Can I get you a soda? Juice?” Mrs. Morgan asks.

  “That’d be great, thanks.” I’m not thirsty, but a drink gives us an excuse to linger.

  Michael follows us into the kitchen and leans against the doorway with his arms folded. I make a concerted effort to ignore him.

  Mrs. Morgan pulls two cans of Coke from the refrigerator and hands them to Ravi and me. The three of us take seats at the granite-topped island that dominates most of the kitchen.

  “It’s so nice how supportive the school is being,” Mrs. Morgan says. “That principal is just wonderful. She came over personally to express her condolences on behalf of the Maplefield community.”

  I didn’t know that, but I’m not surprised. It’s the kind of thing Ms. Larson would do.

  “Is she the one behind this assignment?” Mrs. Morgan asks.

  “No, ma’am. I run the school paper—well, me and Ravi both—and we thought it was the right thing to do. Her loss has affected the entire school.”

  Mrs. Morgan’s eyes pool with tears, but they don’t spill.

  From the doorway, Michael snorts. “Yeah, I bet everyone misses her so much. All these people we never heard boo from before are suddenly crawling out of the woodwork like fucking tragedy vampires. It’s disgusting.”

  “Mikey,” Mrs. Morgan chastises. “That’s not fair.”

  “But it’s true. This is a perfect example.” He shoves himself off the doorjamb and stalks out of the room.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Morgan says. “He’s having a very hard time with this. We all are.”

  “Nothing to apologize for.” Ravi pats the woman’s hand.

  I have a flash of envy at how natural that is for him, how the gesture isn’t at all forced or awkward. Maybe I compartmentalize too much sometimes.

  “What is it I can help you with?” Mrs. Morgan asks.

  “We’re mostly talking to people about their favorite memories of Emma,” I say, a soft lead into the real questions.

  Mrs. Morgan laughs, a choking sound that’s perilously close to a sob. “Oh god, where to begin? Everything. Everything is precious. Her first word—it was kitty, not mommy—and her first steps; the first time she rode a bike without help; and the first time I had to ground her when I caught her ransacking the pantry in the middle of the night. She must’ve been about twelve and had chocolate chips everywhere. She tried to convince me she was sleepwalking.”

  I smile, as I’m expected to, but I’m not sure why a midnight snack was a groundable offense.

  “She was always so driven,” Mrs. Morgan continues. “There were so many dance recitals and soccer games and award banquets, and my god, I took it all for granted. I remember complaining about her schedule, telling her I didn’t have kids for the sole purpose of becoming a chauffeur, but you know what? I’d give anything to drive her to one more activity.”

  She breaks then, in the way that pretty, controlled women do. The tears fall silently down sunken cheeks, and she holds a manicured hand up in apology, reaching for a napkin to blot her face with.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “God, it just sneaks up on you—the reality of it. The fact that she’s gone. I keep expecting her to come bursting through the front door, leaving a trail of shoes and school supplies for me to yell about, but she won’t. Not ever.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Ravi murmurs, but something Jacob said keeps nagging at me. He mentioned Emma’s mother was making things difficult, but that wasn’t the impression I’m getting from the woman.

  “Did Emma seem to be under any extra pressure before she died?” I ask.

  “No, that’s why this is all so hard to believe.” Mrs. Morgan dabs at fresh tears. “She was making plans for college and interning with my sister at BayStateNews. She was so excited and even added an extra gym session in the mornings so she could lose that extra ten pounds. She wanted to look her best for the evening news. She was going to guest-anchor.”

  Mrs. Morgan looks like she’s envisioning her daughter’s small-screen debut, but I’m stuck on the weight statement, unsure if it was Emma or Mrs. Morgan who thought Emma was carrying extra pounds when she couldn’t have possibly been more than a size four on her heaviest day. Maybe this is what Jacob meant about her being difficult.

  “I know this is going to be hard to answer,” I say as gently as possible, “but did she give any indication, anything at all, that she was going to take her own life?”

  Mrs. Morgan shakes her head, touching the sodden napkin to her nose. “No. She was the same old Emma.”

  “Do you know if she was taking drugs?” I keep my voice even and soft, as if I’m not asking something wildly inappropriate.

  Mrs. Morgan’s face falls, and she presses the napkin to her eyes. “Only after. The police said they found amphetamine in her system, and I searched her things. I found a pill—just one—in an empty ChapStick tube. It was Adderall.” She looks at me like she’s desperate to be believed. “Nothing like what the police said. I don’t know where the marks came from, but it wasn’t drugs. Bugbites, I bet. I’m just so glad the paper didn’t mention it—and you can’t either, please. I don’t want my baby being remembered that way.”

  I want to ask more about the marks—does she mean track marks?—but before I can formulate the question, Ravi interjects.

  “No, of course not,” he says. “We’re doing our best to honor Emma’s memory. In fact, do you have any childhood pictures of Emma you could share? We don’t need to take them; I can photograph them here. We were thinking about having some photos to accompany the article.”

  “Of course I do. Here, come see what we have on the mantle. That would be a nice picture.”

  The mantle has been turned into an Emma shrine, with photos documenting her life from infancy right up until the junior year soccer finals and prom.

  Ravi moves around the living room, framing the mantle from different angles while my mind churns over the mystery of the alleged marks. He asks Mrs. Morgan to step into the frame for a few of them, and she looks at the photos rather than Ravi. Her sad gaze will be what makes the image tug at the heartstrings.

  I have an even better idea.

  “Would it be possible to see Emma’s room?” I ask it knowing there’s at least a fifty percent chance of being told no. Mrs. Morgan doesn’t answer right away, but I push forward in full on-air mode. “Emma and I had different friends. I didn’t get to know her as well as I would’ve liked.” I hope the lie doesn’t sound as obvious as it feels. “But a person’s room can tell you so much about them, and it might give me a better sense of who she really was before I write the profile.”

  “Oh, I guess don’t see the harm,” Mrs. Morgan finally says. “It’s just hard. Being in there. It still smells like her.”

  “We won’t disturb anything,” I promise, following her up the carpeted staircase.

  Emma’s door is closed, and Mrs. Morgan opens it slowly, as if she might be intruding.

  The room hasn’t been cleaned since Emma’s death; that’s clear
at once. The bed is a tangle of purple sheets and fluffy pillows, but when Mrs. Morgan sits down on the edge of it, I can’t help wondering if she’s been sleeping there, trying to crawl into the hole her daughter left behind. I firmly set aside the feelings this realization evokes. That’s a road I don’t need to tread.

  I catch the faint click of Ravi’s camera but don’t react. From the corner of my eye, I see he still has the DSLR at his hip, to all appearances merely holding it. The shot is a gamble, but if the angle is wide enough, he would’ve captured Mrs. Morgan on the bed along with the rest of the room. I could hug him for being so intuitive.

  Emma’s desk is cluttered with notebooks, gel pens, and a rose gold laptop. A rose gold laptop that perfectly matches the phone Emma was never seen without.

  Mrs. Morgan must notice me looking, because she gives a little laugh. “I know. It’s crazy. She had straight As but lived like a complete slob.”

  “Did they give you her phone back?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  “It was never found. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.” Talk about an understatement. “Don’t you wonder what she was looking at in her final days? Who she was talking to?”

  Mrs. Morgan shakes her head, and her face pinches with an effort to keep her composure. “I don’t know. I just know it wasn’t me.” She dissolves then, looking impossibly stranded on Emma’s rumpled bed. “The last thing we did was fight.”

  I spend the weekend sending increasingly exasperated messages to Kylie with no response. I don’t even get the courtesy of the bouncing dots to show she’s even considering replying.

  I don’t have time to dwell on it though, because Cassidy is in the midst of a meltdown about what to wear for her date with Bryce. I forgive her for acting like it’s more important than a murder investigation, because I’ve made damn sure she doesn’t know anything about it. Far as I’m concerned, she can read about it on the Monitor once it’s solved. She has other things to focus on.