Dead Letters(82)

“Fuck if I know. They were spending a lot of time together, then Kayla got in a fight with our dad and, like, I don’t know, ‘came out’ or whatever homos do. Said she and Zelda were in love.” Oh, Christ. Zelda had some young girl mooning around after her, convinced they would be together forever, no doubt. “But Kayla wasn’t no queer,” Kyle continues, sounding hopeful.

“Maybe,” I agree. Wyatt reappears in the doorway, holding two beers instead of three. I’m momentarily concerned that he’s decided to cut me off, but he hands me my drink in the curvy beer glass and reaches over to Kyle to give him his. Kyle immediately sloshes some of the liquid down his chin, and a few drops slop onto his shorts, darkening the fabric. He doesn’t seem to notice. Wyatt folds his arms across his chest, hands empty.

“How long had Kayla and Zelda been hanging out?” I ask.

“Few months, maybe six? Christmas?” He seems bewildered. “But since it warmed up this spring, Kayla’s off with her in her fuckin’ trailer more and more. Started using.”

“Using what?” Wyatt chimes in.

“Druuugs,” Kyle says as though Wyatt is unspeakably slow.

“What kind?”

“Fuck if I know,” Kyle repeats. “Expensive, whatever it was.”

“Doesn’t really narrow it down,” I say.

He doesn’t hear me. “She stole a whole buncha shit from my mom’s jewelry box. Then when my mom chucked her out for a coupla days, she took off to my aunt’s and sold her TV. How do you, like, explain that shit without drugs?” He punctuates this query with a rhetorical jab of his finger in my direction. I step back to avoid him knocking my beer into my chest.

“Good point. Did she and Zelda ever hang out with other people? Do you know who their friends were?”

“How the fuck would I know that? Kayla was always off sneaking around—she didn’t tell me shit. Mosta what she said the last few months were total lies. That girl is gonna be in so much fuckin’ shit when she comes home….” His voice wavers uncertainly.

“Where do you think she might be, Kyle?” Wyatt says. “Why do you think she’s laying low?”

“Jesus. You people and your fucking questions. She probably knows there’re rumors that somebody killed your crazy-ass sister, and she doesn’t want to get picked up. Then she’d have to get clean. Fuck, maybe she killed your fucking sister.” Kyle chuckles. “Wouldn’t that be poetic justice. Irony.”

I don’t really see how that could be, but I decide not to press it. Wyatt looks dangerously close to starting something, and I put my hand on his forearm. The sudden contact with his warm skin makes me flush, and I realize the beer has just kicked in. My fingers linger for just a second longer than they need to.

“Any proof of that? Theories, maybe?” I ask.

“Fuck! They got in a fight over who got the last squirt of heroin, and Kayla kicked her ass, maybe went too far. You’ve never seen my little sister when she doesn’t get what she wants.” Kyle seems to find this idea both plausible and entertaining. He giggles tipsily. “Or maybe she got jealous ’cuz she found out you were fucking her girlfriend,” he says to Wyatt, giving him a shove that is not entirely friendly. “Maybe you better look out!” He chuckles again and drains down most of the rest of his beer in a gulp.

I sip mine daintily. Somehow it is easier to stay sober when confronted with a convincing reminder of just what being fully toasted looks like. Too bad I’m usually that reminder.

“Have you talked to the cops at all?” I ask Kyle.

“No, why would I?” He seems surprised. “They got their guy, that fucking Jason dude. Why would I rat out my sister? If they catch her with drugs, she’ll go to prison. She’s got a record, yo.”

I look over at Wyatt. I’m distracted by this turn of the conversation with Kyle when my phone starts ringing. Wondering, as always, which phone is vibrating in my bag, I poke around before pulling either phone out. It’s my phone, though, and I swipe across the screen to answer it. A local number, not saved to my contacts.

“Hello?”

“Ava Antipova?”

“Yes…”

“This is Officer Giles, with the Watkins Glen Police Department. Do you think you could come down to the station?”

“What, now?” I ask. Wyatt raises an eye.

“The coroner was just here,” the cop continues. “And he was able to complete his report. We’d like to discuss his findings with you and your family, if possible.”

“What do you mean? What did you find?”

“Well, ma’am, I’d really prefer to discuss it in person, with you and your family,” the cop says uncertainly.

“Why? I mean, it wasn’t Zelda, was it?” I say, the beer making me reckless. Still, I don’t need to get dragged down to the station at this time of night just to hear that it wasn’t my sister in the fire. They can tell me that on the phone.

“Um, well, see, the coroner was able to find a few pieces of dental evidence, and he says they’re a match with your sister’s records. He’s ruling it a homicide.”





20


Taped to the windshield of Wyatt’s truck is a letter: T.