After You Died Read online

  My father glares at her as he snuffs out his cigarette. Her eyes meet his for a brief moment. Cheeks flushing, she straightens her dress, the collar around her neck, and sits down. Her eyes fall to her folded hands in her lap. At least this time, he said it with his eyes, not with his hands. With my wrists shackled, I won’t be able to intervene. If they send me away, I won’t ever be able to protect my mother from him again.

  “Please excuse my wife. I’m sure you understand how women get when it comes to their children.” My father speaks slow, his drawl seeping into every word. He tugs on the sleeves of his beige suit, his plaid tie, and leans forward with his forearms on the table, hair so thick with pomade it shines like a highway in a summer storm. “Here’s what I was thinking, he pleads guilty, but as a juvenile with no priors, you send him to the Dozier school until he ages out.”

  My stomach drops, and my face goes cold when he mentions Dozier. Some might say it’s worse than a death sentence. Prison, death row, they would at least grant me a swift death—a fast escape. Everyone in Florida has heard the whispers about the school at some point. They’ve investigated the reports of abuse hundreds of times, but nothing ever comes of it.

  Even behind his thick glasses, I can feel the rage in the beady little eyes of the assistant district attorney. My father’s mention of Dozier must have been the last straw. The air is bitter with his hate. His face glows red, even the tips of his ears are tinged. He spits out a half-cough, half-laugh. “You think that’s going to fly? He murdered an innocent girl.” His eyes lock on me, face screwed up like he’s smelled sour socks. “We should just take you out back right now.”

  “Go ahead, put me out of my fucking misery,” I almost say. I think better of it and keep up the mute act. My lips press together, and I eye the glass of whiskey in front of my father.

  I understand the A.D.A.’s frustration—to those who don’t believe the stories, Dozier school would be a laughable punishment for murder. But from our end of the table, it’s the only thing in this state with a reputation worse than mine. Dozier is a reform school in the sticks of the Florida panhandle. It’s buried so far in the middle of nowhere, they don’t even have fences around it. They don’t need to. They know if you escape, chances are you’ll get eaten by a gator. Even if you manage to avoid the jaws, there are a million other ways to die in the swamp. Besides, maybe no one bothers to escape because there’s nothing to escape to.

  Why couldn’t they have left me in my cell for this meeting?

  “Arthur, can you give us a minute?” the district attorney asks, but it’s clear in his tone that it’s a dismissal.

  The A.D.A. huffs, slams his fits on the table, and storms out. I can still feel his anger, and smell his bad cologne lingering after he’s gone.

  My lawyer, the beetle of a man, perks up. Large eyes searching, thick moustache curling, he clears his throat. “Thank you, David, now we can get to business. I think we can come to an” he pauses and swallows, “an agreement.”

  My father reaches into his suit pocket, pulls out a thick envelope and slides it across the table to the D.A. He takes it, thumbs through it for a moment and stuffs it into his suit. A smile creeps across his face for just long enough for me to notice, but it disappears into the shadows as he lifts his head.

  “He will go to the Dozier school until he ages out. After that he will be free to go home, but on probation for three additional years. If he commits any crimes after his release, he will go to prison,” the D.A. explains.

  Fear coils inside me, though I try to swallow the dread, each time my heart beats, it flares up again. Every breath I take drags in another thread of panic, my eyes drop to the table as I shift. The metal cuffs bite into my wrists.

  “We understand,” my father confirms for our side of the table. He doesn’t look at me, or my mother for approval. Instead he just says, “We agree.”

  “Great, I look forward to seeing you again, Judge Flemming,” he says, extending his hand toward my father.

  Today, I discovered if you’re eighteen and the lead suspect in a murder case involving the girl you love, and your dad is a judge, you can avoid jail time. No one in this room cares she’s dead, except me. Worse, no one cares if I killed her, except me. I should be happy my father was able to bail me out. He spared my record today. In the end, I know he’s protecting his own image—he wants to run for governor.

  Everyone stands, shaking hands, lighting cigarettes, clinking glasses, like this is some kind of fucking celebration. This is as close as I’ll get to Olivia’s funeral. My downcast eyes refuse to meet anyone else’s. I don’t even stand. Guilt weighs me down, and their looks will only make it worse. They’ll think I should be happy, celebrate this. After all, in a few years we can forget I ever possibly murdered someone and move on like it never happened. Joy.

  One day I might get out of Dozier, go work with my dad’s race horses, and count the days without Olivia. When the days without her pile up in my mind, I twist my wrist against the handcuffs until the metal bites into my flesh. The only thing that dulls the agony of her absence is physical pain.

  While my mother and father schmooze and booze, I sit at the table digging my thumb into the fake wood. The clock ticks down the seconds until I’m in a cell again, until I’m in Dozier. The thought of that place turns my blood cold. Stories have littered the news for years. Murders, beatings, disappearances, the place has a sinister past, it’s enough to make the bile creep up the back of my throat.

  It’s even worse that my dad is responsible for sending me there. He paid off the D.A and that’s the place he chose to send me. There’s only one reason he’d send me there.

  He doesn’t want me to come back.

  Before

  Date Unknown

  I’ve been walking for three hours, that’s my best guess anyway. The sky is black, there’s not a single star, even the moon is gone. Behind me the gas streetlamps still flicker in the distance, but it’s what’s ahead that’s important. Trees creep over the road, their ancient bowed branches form archways. The sharp drill of crickets rises with every step I take. As I walk deeper into the swamp, the crickets die and give way to the slow, rolling croaks of bull frogs.

  My pockets are heavy. The liquid sloshes inside the vials I carry. Though I made up my mind to do this weeks ago, guilt is still heavy on my heart. I have to press on. I’ve already gathered the supplies, and I’ve set the date.

  The water from the river laps at the sides of the dirt road. The wind carries the sweet, woody scent of a burning herb. Sandalwood. I thumb the hilt of the blade in my pocket, energy buzzes through the metal and tickles my skin. It’s a risk being out here, without the decoys. Just in case.

  When I break through the weeping, knobby trees, I see the shack at the edge of the swamp. Beside me I sense the heat of life radiating off the gators. But I don’t stop, they don’t even flicker fear inside me.

  I knock twice on the slotted wooden door. Though I can feel her inside, it takes longer than I’d like for her to come to the door. Something rustles inside, and her dark eye pops into view through the gaps in the worn wooden boards. Her lips are pursed, and her brows drawn as she glowers at me. Clearly, she thought I’d back out, that I wouldn’t come.

  It takes her so long to push the door out, that a bad feeling brews inside me. When she finally lets me in, I dig in my pockets for her payment. I drop the rubies and gold coins on her table. Though I offer her a smile, she doesn’t return it. Her aged face is creased into a perpetual frown.

  “That’s more than we agreed on,” she says with a thick Cajun accent.

  I shrug. “It’s not like I can take them with me.”

  She eyes me and a hint of a smile crosses her dark lips. In her hands she’s got a bowl of paste, she drops a handful of new herbs into the bowl and begins to stir. Her back turns on me as she sweeps across the room.

  I take out the dagger and set it next to the coins. “I don’t want that,” she spits the words at me.
r />   I slip the blade back into my pocket. I wasn’t trying to offend her. But it’d make me feel better if I knew she’d be around the next time I need her. She’ll have to warn her grandkids about me. There’s pain in her eyes when she turns back to survey me. She thumbs something in her hand. Under her breath she mutters harsh words that are foreign to my ears. She thrusts a necklace in my direction.

  “What’s this?” I ask as I turn the green gem over in my hand.

  “Put it on so I can bind the magic to the necklace.”

  “And what good will that do me?” I ask as I drop the necklace onto the table. I’ll die soon, and it’s not like I can take anything with me to the other side. She knows that. We’ve discussed my options at length, though it took ages to convince her that this ritual was necessary. But something has to change. I’ve tried this too many times.

  She shakes her head and laughs. “It’s one of those days, I tell ya.” She rubs her chin as she scans the shelves in front of her. Each is packed with bottles, statues, and mystical objects I don’t recognize. “Our only option is to bind it to your spirit.”

  “Will that work?”

  She nods, and heads out the front door, the bowl of paste held firmly in her grasp. I follow her. The night is thick around us as she leads me into the woods. Her hand wraps tight around a slender candle, its light flickers in the wind. On a night this dark, we’d be lost without it. We reach a clearing in a few minutes. She sweeps away the underbrush revealing a circle with symbols inside etched into the ground.

  She holds her arm out, “In the center, if-you-please.”

  I study the symbols etched into the ground before I step toward the circle. There isn’t a single one I recognize. Though I trust her, my nerves are raw as I step toward the center. But I take a deep breath, sucking in the cool, autumn air. She walks toward me, a scoop of the paste on her finger. The breeze carries the scent as she approaches, a deep earthy smell. Carefully she draws a finger down my forehead leaving a line of paste there.

  “This might,” she pauses for a second to laugh at me, “hurt a little.”

  She stands in front of me, her eyes meet mine. Her palms stretch out in front of her, and she snaps her arms out to her sides. The moment her hands meet with the circle, the air around me shifts. A tingling feeling works its way from the soles of my feet. It pushes upward, through my veins, my bones, until it feels like there’s static caught beneath my skin. Around me, the air twists like waves of heat on a hot summer day.

  Her word rise, but they’re lost on me. She chants as her hands connect with the circle. The symbols carved into her palms glow. All at once, it feel as though something is being pulled away from my body. The separation is agony, as though the bones are being ripped from my body one by one. A glowing shapeless ball forms in front of me. Light flows from the edges of the circle into the ball. It grows brighter, it twists, and then slams into me with a force that knocks me off my feet.

  When I look up, she stands above me with her arm extended. She helps me up.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  With the ritual still humming beneath my flesh, I walk back toward the city. It was a risk to leave in the middle of the night. If I want to break the cycle, this time I have to do something different.

  After

  The bang of a nightstick on cell bars wakes me from my nightmare, my heart bursts to life. I swear something still lingers beneath my skin, something warm, something foreign. Rhythmic clangs echo through the cellblock as the guard hits the baton on each and every bar. My breaths are uneven as the dream claws at my mind.

  It was a dream. That couldn’t be real. It couldn’t.

  Since Olivia’s death I’ve had strange dreams, visions I can’t place. But I keep them to myself. It adds more evidence to the Asher’s off his rocker pile

  I realize the banging is from the guard, I breathe deep, and try to crush the fear prickling the back of my mind. My gaze moves to the window. It’s so early, darkness envelopes the world outside, stars flicker against the black sky. The guard stands a few feet from the bars, eyeing me, like he expects me to say something. I prop myself up on my elbow; the metal frame beneath the thin mattress bites at the bones in my arm. My body is stiff, muscles tethered by sleep.

  “What?” I ask, trying to stretch my night-cramped muscles. My joints pop and crack, and the slightest bit of relief rushes through me.

  He can’t be here to move me already, can he?

  He slides a pack of cigarettes through the bars, just enough for me to see them. Though it feels like a trap, I force myself from the bed, and take them. After all, who knows the next time I’ll get another one. When I flip the top open, a lighter waits for me inside. My eyes linger on it for a moment, considering. The lighter is too small though, and surrounded by cement walls and metal bars, I can’t do much damage with fire here. In one fluid motion I strike the flame, inhale, slide it back into the pack. He eyes me as I set the pack on the bars.

  “Thanks.” Smoke trails on my words.

  “Thank your father.” A hint of a smile lingers on his face, his words are laced with venom. He’s toying with me.

  My father, of course. It’d make sense even here he’d have favors to collect on. He seems to have them everywhere. It seems strange and unlikely he’d waste a favor on me. I sit back on the edge of the mattress, just barely enough to hold myself up. My elbows rest on my knees as I savor the cig, it’s the first I’ve had since I’ve been in holding.

  He motions at me, his gaze rests on my hair, “They’re probably going to shave your head, when you get to whereever they sends you.” His jaw juts out as he laughs at me, there’s a nasal quality to it that puts me on edge.

  I shrug. Keeping my hair long doesn’t matter anymore, it’s this way because that’s how Olivia liked it. The “bad boy” look, she called it. Long hair, a leather jacket, faded Chuck Taylor’s with yellowing rubber, and whatever band t-shirt I’m able to find—it’s the uniform Olivia loved. All those things are now piled high in a closet I’ll never see again. They should have buried them with her.

  “Why’d you do it?” the guard asks, he looks at me out of the corner of his eye, like he’s trying to hide the curiosity on his face.

  Ah, there it is. The question he’s wanted to ask. I could see the question on his face each time he came in, but now it’s his last chance. He must have heard they’ll be shipping me off soon. This is the moment when anger used to flare up inside me, I was never sure where it came from. It doesn’t do anything more than nag at me now, nothing more than frustration digging under my skin.

  “I didn’t.” I’m not sure how many more times I’ll say it. Each time I say it, I’m less sure it’s the truth. Each day that passes I grow more and more bitter that my memory hasn’t returned. There’s nothing worse than being betrayed by your own mind.

  “That’s what they all say. If you’re innocent, why did they find you holding the knife? Why’d they find her blood all over you?” He crosses his arms and leans against the wall. Fucking know-it-all.

  I shrug. There’s no point in getting angry or arguing. Instead I savor the cig. Each one lets me breathe in the memories of her. And hopefully gets me one breath closer to seeing her again.

  “Don’t know, don’t care.” The lie slips out easily. And I’m amazed how convincing it sounds, even to me.

  I do care. Every part of me aches to know what happened that night, to know what I did or didn’t do. Burying myself beneath lies has become an easy defense mechanism. I figure one day, if I tell the lies enough, eventually they’ll become true.

  An uncomfortable laugh pours out of him, the kind born deep down. He turns, and walks away, spinning his night stick. I sigh with relief as his beige uniform disappears. There’s a certain kind of relief that comes when someone gives up on you.

  The same guard leads me to a room, it looks like it’s normally used for interrogations. Solid concrete walls, small metal table, and a barred window the size of a shoe
box. The only difference between this and a normal interrogation room is the cart standing beside the table. Several stacked glasses and an ice bucket sit in the center. If I didn’t hear my mother’s sobs outside in the hall and feel the eyes of the guard behind me, I’d spend longer considering the damage I could do with the glass.

  My mother’s sniffles echo inside the room, they slip easily through the thick, metal door before she comes in. It’s hard to even look at her. Her eyes are pink, rubbed raw. Bright red skin puckers around her nose and above her lips. The way she looks at me, it’s like she thinks I’m going to kill her, too, or maybe she thinks she’s never going to see me again. The weight of her gaze makes me slump against the chair. She cowers from me, clutching her purse in her lap. Her beehive is disheveled, stray hairs flying off in every direction. Maybe she slept on it and didn’t bother to check the mirror before she left.

  My dad doesn’t look at me, or in my direction. He walks across the room to the cart. After all, it must be here for his benefit. Ice cubes clink loudly as he drops each one in. An amber liquid streams from a flask he removes from his blazer pocket. He sits down like he hasn’t a care in the world, especially me. I’m not sure he realizes I’m here.

  Mom tries to smooth her hair. It doesn’t work. She doesn’t look at me when she says, “I can’t believe they’re sending you to that...place.” She blots her eyes with a soggy tissue; it’s limp, lifeless in her hand.

  Did she already forget he’s sending me there?

  I know she won’t take the issue up with him. He’s infallible. In her mind, this will never be his fault. It’s probably better if she doesn’t bring it up, I won’t be at home to intervene on her behalf anymore.

  “It’s going to be fine, Mom.” Though I try to reassure her, I’m not sure myself. I’m so uneasy, unsure, I’m surprised my voice is even. I press my handcuffed arms down on my legs to keep them from bouncing.

  “They’re just stories, Barb,” my dad finally says, giving the slightest wave of dismissal. “They’ve done investigations for years. He’s better off there than prison. He can go to class, work. They’ve even got team sports. In winter they set up those nice Christmas displays folks can drive through.”