Burden Falls

by Kat Ellis

  A little while later, Carolyn glances at my phone as it lights up for about the millionth time. Ford keeps trying to call me. Message me. But he can’t dipshit his way out of this one. There’s no cute pic that’ll make me forget he stole something really important from me.

  Daphne and Carla are mostly staying quiet about it, but I can tell they agree with me that Ford has gone way over the line this time. Carla thinks Ford treats me like, and I quote, “a girlfriend he really enjoys cheating on,” and, although I am definitely not Ford’s girlfriend, I think I’m starting to see what she means.

  “Are you going to answer that?” Carolyn says, eyeing my phone. I haven’t told her what’s going on with Ford, but I’m sure she’s guessed something’s up.

  “Nope.” I turn it over so the screen’s facedown on the kitchen table. “I’m completely focused on”—I check the notes in front of me—“algebra.”

  Carolyn snorts. “Mmhmm.”

  It’s almost a half hour later when Uncle Ty appears. I’m about to ask if he’s feeling better (even though he doesn’t look it) when Detective Holden and Daphne’s dad follow him in.

  It’s suddenly very crowded and airless in the tiny cottage kitchen.

  I completely forgot what Daphne said about her dad wanting to ask me more questions. After everything at school with my locker and then Ford, I totally spaced.

  Carolyn stands slowly. “Were we expecting—?”

  “The detective and Officer Chavez have a couple more questions for Ava,” Ty cuts in. I can tell he’s not happy about them being here. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him call Daphne’s dad anything other than Dave. It must be weird having his poker buddy turn up and suddenly have to be all yes, sir with him. I mean, I guess it’s similar to when I see Uncle Ty at school, but more . . . possible jail time-y.

  “Why don’t you take a seat, officers, and I’ll make some tea?” Carolyn says, stepping back from the kitchen table to make room for the cops to sit. I wait for Uncle Ty to take the seat next to me, but he just stands in the doorway, face grim.

  The two cops look like polar opposites, aside from the fact they’re both men. Officer Chavez is Black, a little stocky for his uniform, with a round baby face and a smooth, bald head. Detective Holden is wearing what looks like the same rumpled suit he had on last time we met, and has so many lines on his face, it makes me think of a prisoner marking time on the wall of a prison cell.

  Daphne’s dad smiles at me across the table. Detective Holden doesn’t.

  “Just a few routine questions,” the detective says. “Do you mind if we record this?”

  “I think we’d need to consult a lawyer before agreeing to that,” Uncle Ty says flatly, and Officer Chavez pauses halfway through laying the recorder on the table.

  Detective Holden takes it in his stride, though. “Of course. We can always go over this again at the station if we need to.”

  Uncle Ty shrugs. I’m starting to get annoyed by the whole dick-measuring vibe between the two of them. I clear my throat.

  “What did you want to ask me, Detective?”

  “Let’s start with your whereabouts yesterday, before you discovered the body. Can you go through your day for us?”

  “Uh . . . sure.” I give a basic rundown of what happened, which is pretty much the same as what I told them at the station yesterday. At least I think it is; last night I felt like my head was full of ice chips, so I guess I could’ve said anything.

  “You didn’t leave school at all during the day yesterday?” Holden leans in.

  “No.” Unlike today.

  “You didn’t see Freya at any time yesterday?”

  “No. Well, not until I . . . you know, found her. Dead.”

  “Of course. But how about on your way to school yesterday morning—you didn’t see Freya Miller then?”

  I open my mouth to say no, then stop. I did see Freya yesterday morning, at the Pump’N’Go.

  “I didn’t talk to her, but I saw her putting gas in her car. Well, her brother’s car.”

  “Did you intend to speak with her?”

  I frown. “No.”

  “So you didn’t follow her when she left the gas station?”

  My mouth is suddenly a sandbox. I focus on the scars on my hands and try to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t follow her. We were just headed the same way—north, along River Road. But at the junction Freya must’ve turned left, in the direction of the manor. I went right, toward school. Her car definitely wasn’t in the lot when I got there.”

  “I see.” Detective Holden nods. “There are a few things I wanted to go over with you about the crime scene. Can you go through your steps with me again? From when you and Dominic Miller parted ways at your car.”

  I nod, if only to give myself time to prep. Then I run through the whole thing again, step by step, until the point where Officer Chavez arrived.

  “And when did you move the body?”

  “I didn’t,” I say, frowning. “You’ve already asked me this like a hundred times. Dominic moved Freya while he was doing CPR.”

  What’s the big deal about moving her, anyway? There must be some reason for the question, but I can’t see if it’s to try and catch me out somehow, or make me point a finger at Dominic. Do they suspect him?

  “Sunday night, when you say you overheard a phone call between Freya and her mysterious boyfriend, what exactly were you doing at the manor?”

  I swallow hard, not missing the definite note of suspicion in Holden’s tone now.

  “I’d gone to cover over the mural I told you about, but I didn’t get a chance.” If I’d done it then, I’d have had no reason to go looking in the pavilion yesterday. I wouldn’t have found Freya’s body. Wouldn’t be staring at two cops now.

  “How would you describe your relationship with Freya Miller?” The detective’s question takes me a moment to decipher.

  “Relationship? We didn’t really—”

  My voice chokes off as I look up into Detective Holden’s eyes. Or what should be his eyes.

  In their place are two dark, empty holes.

  For a moment, all I can do is gape—it’s as though all the air, all the sound, has been sucked into that blackness. Like it’s trying to draw me in too.

  There’s a loud screech as my chair scrapes back across the kitchen floor. I back away until I’m pressed against the wall. He tilts his head to one side, and for a moment I’m back in the pavilion, finding Freya slumped against the stone wall.

  “Ava?” Uncle Ty steps toward me. I drag my gaze from Detective Holden to him and immediately stifle a shriek. Uncle Ty’s eyes are gone too.

  So are Officer Chavez’s.

  My breath seizes in my chest, making each thunderclap of my heart even louder. Boom, boom, BOOM. I look from one face to the next. As I do, those horrific gouged eyes begin to bleed. Thin rivulets at first, gliding down Officer Chavez’s cheeks and trickling from his chin, drip, drip, drip . . .

  Then the blood starts to gush from the mangled sockets, pumping out in the same pounding rhythm as my heartbeat, sluicing down onto the kitchen floor like a cascade. A waterfall. Pooling on the floor. Spreading toward me like a tide . . .

  The kettle shrieks on the stove, a shrill note that builds until I think my skull will burst.

  “Wow, what a racket!” Carolyn deftly silences the kettle by taking it off the burner. “Sorry, Ava—did it startle you?”

  “It wasn’t . . .” I begin, but fall silent. Because Carolyn’s eyes are perfectly normal. I turn back to Uncle Ty and the cops, and see theirs are exactly where they’re supposed to be too. No gory, empty sockets. No red tide sweeping across the floor toward me.

  Normal. Fine.

  I put a hand out to steady myself, and the wall feels unnaturally cold against my sweaty palm.

  What the hell
just happened?

  “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. Can we talk some other time?” I say quietly, not waiting for an answer before I dart through the door from the kitchen, through the garage, then into my little room in the mill.

  I pace the floor, lungs still heaving and a clammy line running all the way down my back.

  There must be some rational reason for what just happened. I try to channel Carla, come up with some sciencey explanation for it. Have I caught Uncle Ty’s fever? If he’s been dealing with shit like this, he sure kept it quiet. God, I’ve never experienced anything like that before, not even after the crash. Awful Technicolor nightmares, sure, but not this. It had to be a daydream or whatever, right? After finding Freya like that yesterday . . .

  I’m sitting at my desk, sketching, when Carolyn knocks on my door a few minutes later. She leans in the doorway, worry lines cutting across her forehead.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah, sorry. I just got a little weirded out for a second. Are they gone now?”

  “Ty’s just showing them out. I think they wanted to talk with him alone.”

  “Why?”

  Carolyn offers me a reassuring smile, but I don’t miss the way she grips the door frame, her fingertips turning bloodless. “Ty was Freya’s teacher. Maybe they wanted to ask him who her friends were, something like that.”

  Somehow, I doubt that’s what they needed to talk to him alone for. They’re probably checking to see if I’m on any kind of medication. Or whether I should be.

  I don’t have to wonder about it long. Uncle Ty pops his head around the door, resting his chin on Carolyn’s shoulder.

  “What did they say?” Carolyn asks before I get a chance.

  “Holden wanted to know what happened in the art studio Monday,” Uncle Ty says slowly. It takes me a moment to work out what he means.

  “The paint thing?”

  “Yes.” He straightens, shoving his hands into his pockets and exhaling hard through his nose. “But, more specifically, the fact that the two of you argued—in public—and two days later Freya turned up dead.”

  EIGHTEEN

  I lie on my bed for a while after the cops leave. I’m still sweating—maybe this really is the start of a fever.

  There’s a crack in my ceiling that I don’t think was there when we moved in. It’s only a fine hairline, but I don’t like that it’s right above my bed. The longer I stare at it, the more convinced I become that I can actually see it spreading.

  Then stop looking at it, dipshit.

  I pick up my phone and type out a message.

  Ava: Saw you at the cemetery earlier. Wasn’t sure if you wanted to be alone. Maybe I’m the last person you want to hear from right now, but if you want to talk, I’m here. I know how badly you’re hurting.

  Jesus. There’s no way I can send that to Dominic Miller. I delete the entire message. Start again.

  Ava: Hey, how’s it going? I just wanted to

  Delete.

  Ava: I’m sorry about Freya

  Delete. I mean, I am sorry she’s dead, the same way I’d be sorry anyone is dead, but it’d sound insincere as hell when Dominic knows exactly how I felt about her.

  Sighing like a hurricane, I type out one word and hit send before I can doubt myself.

  Ava: Hey.

  Nooooo! Why the hell did I just send that? And why isn’t there a claw-back function on a goddamn text message?

  I almost swallow my tongue when the ellipses start dancing right away, letting me know Dominic (or “Monica” as he’s known in my contacts list) is currently typing out a reply. I have a moment of cold dread, imagining it’ll be something along the lines of leave me the hell alone. After all, why would he want to hear from someone who openly hated his sister? Especially now, right after she’s been murdered?

  I put the phone down, deciding I’d rather not see his response. Then pick it up again.

  Monica: I’ll meet you at the public library tomorrow after school. Bring your comic.

  I stare at the message, certain I must be reading it wrong. Because there’s no way Dominic wants to work on my art project right now, and I’m actually kind of pissed he thinks that’s why I messaged him. Although I guess my “Hey” might’ve been a little vague.

  Ava: Just wanted to see how you’re doing.

  Again, the ellipses start up right away.

  Monica: Do you want to work on it or not?

  I hiss out an irritated breath. Literally everything Dominic Miller does seems designed to piss me off. And this time I can’t even tell him to go fuck thyself, or whatever Carla said. Not only because his sister just died, either; I actually do need to work on the comic. Somehow, Dominic has become a key part of that.

  I’ve sketched out several new panels to add to the one I did on my own, but they’re still rough. I hoped Dominic would help me figure out the captions and dialogue to make it all work.

  Ava: See you tomorrow then.

  As soon as I hit send, my phone starts to ring, startling me so badly, I almost drop the damn thing.

  It’s Ford. His stupid face fills the screen.

  I flip him the bird—as though he can actually see me—and turn off my phone.

  Bang! Bang! BANG!

  I wake with a shout, knuckles grazing my bedroom wall as I flail upright. I’m in bed, at the cottage. I was having the dream again—the crash. I think Freya might’ve been there too. Or was it Sadie?

  The banging continues.

  What the hell?

  The wind roars outside, whistling through a gap somewhere.

  Bang!

  I know that sound. It’s the window in the loft. Must’ve blown open again.

  Letting out a shaky breath, I drag myself out of bed to go close it.

  I can’t get back to sleep after that. Every nerve feels raw, like I’m hooked up to a car battery. But it’s the middle of the night, I have nowhere to go, and there’s no way I’ll be able to focus on TV right now. I take out my sketchpad and start to draw. I begin with some experimental panels for Mostly Deadish, redoing and refining them by the light of my desk lamp. But at some point my focus shifts, and I start drawing all the things I can’t seem to push out of my head.

  I don’t even notice the hours passing until the alarm on my phone goes off, making me jump. I yelp at an angry twinge in my neck. When I look around me, my floor is covered in sheets and sheets of drawings. There’s the girl from the river, eyes milky and faded the way I imagine they looked. There’s Freya, of course. Sitting in the pavilion, slumped a little to one side, with her hands in her lap and dark pencil marks showing the mess where her eyes used to be. There are drawings of Sadie too. So many pictures of her.

  And eyes. Dozens of them. Hundreds.

  A sea of eyes, all watching me.

  NINETEEN

  Later that morning, my head is so foggy, I don’t even remember the drive to school. If I weren’t too tired to care, it would be worrying. But I don’t seem to be running a fever, so that’s something.

  One thing my head has cleared enough to know: If I’m ever going to sleep well again, I need to stop thinking about ghosts, and start focusing on what’s real.

  Someone killed Freya Miller.

  Someone or something? No. Much as I hate to agree with Carla on anything, I think she has a point—it’s kind of hard to picture a ghost going after Freya with a melon-baller.

  Doesn’t stop every dickhead at school muttering Sadie as I walk past. Or maybe it just feels that way.

  “Hey.”

  My head jerks up so fast, I catch the edge of my locker door right above my eye.

  “Jesus!”

  “God, Ava, are you okay?” Ford says. “Such a klutz . . .”

  I’m too busy rubbing the point of impact t
o answer him. Then his hand lands on my arm, and I jerk away.

  “Where’s my necklace?” I snap.

  “It’s at home. And I’m not giving it back until you let me explain—”

  I hold up my free hand, stopping him. “I don’t want to hear it, Ford. Just give me the damn necklace, and then leave me alone.”

  “Ava, don’t be like that . . .”

  I push past him and through the crowd of students waiting to go to homeroom. There’s only one place I can go where he can’t follow without looking like a creep, so I head to the bathroom.

  The mirror above the sink shows an angry red stripe running vertically above my right eyebrow. I wet some tissue with cold water and press it to the mark. Just then I spot Daphne in the mirror, coming out of the stall behind me. She’s wearing an A-line houndstooth dress over orange wool stockings and black patent-leather boots, her hair elaborately pinned up, looking very Vintage Witch.

  “Oh my God!” she says. “Your head!”

  “Before you ask,” I say, “I did not get into a fight. Well, only with my locker.”

  Daphne winces, then starts poking tentatively at my forehead. “You should pick a locker your own size next time. You look kinda washed out too. Are you having the dreams again?”

  She and Carla have always known about them. Sometimes we’d be having a sleepover and I’d wake up screaming, my hands bleeding again where I’d ripped the stitches trying to scramble out of the car in my nightmare. I am a fun friend.

  “These dreams are . . . different,” I say, hoping she’ll leave it at that. For once, she does.

  “Are you worried about the investigation into Freya’s murder?”

  “Not really,” I lie. “I mean, it’s not like I killed her.”

  Daphne looks around to see who might be within earshot, but the bathroom is empty except for the two of us. “I overheard Dad talking to that detective they brought in from the city—”