Chapter Text
That’s it, then. Right back to her dad. If she’s lucky, then he’d tan her hide for something acceptable, like popping oxys or something. Her eyes follow the pink glitter sticking to the inside of the clear plastic evidence bag.
“Son?” says the officer holding the evidence bag. He manages to add three or four syllables and some extra condescension into the one vowel. He sounds like he’s been here in this “respectable” shithole parish—that was once plantations and then cotton mills and now a dollar tree and some plantation weddings—for lifetimes. Like the whole blood-soaked place had sunk down to meet him and his watery, punched-out blue eyes. “Yer daddy should be here soon. He should be sortin’ yah riiiight out.”
She thinks about whether to answer him. She could say they planted it. She could say she was just doing drugs. Her dad wouldn’t believe her. She could try saying it anyways.
He dumps the evidence bag in a gray tub and passes it to her. There’s a yellow sticky note between his finger and thumb. Trembling like the last leaf on a tree branch. “You can do what you want with that.” he grunts. “An’ yah didn’ get this from me. You didn’ get this from no one. Bu’,” the officer leaned closer, surrounding her with rank stale cigarettes, “he’d kill me if you didn’ have it and,” he whispered, as much as an officer could whisper (which meant he was definitely in her personal space and still speaking like he was talking to the whole room)—“the man knows how to hide a body.”
The officer leaned back.
“Erm. Thanks, uh, Officer—” she glanced at his nametag. Captain Ringard Blanc. “—sorry—Captain Blanc.”
“You’ll be outta my hair soon. One way o’ anothah.” He grunted and slammed the metal door.
She glances at the paper. It’s a phone number. No name, just 212- —there’s another slam. She jumps. She glances at the sparkly pink.
She had to find a trash can. Fast.
⁂
No name. She googles—A New York area code from before the millennium. Unlisted. She squints at the heavy, block-lettered bleeding pen.…Could kill a cop and hide the body?? who’s this guy?? Batman??
⁂
Are you batman?? She hits send.
…
…
Sorry, Batman don’t exist. The number replies.
She deflates. It was definitely the wrong number. It was totally a prank. She gave a cop her burner phone number. Shit. She was gonna have to save up for ano—
…
The other phone was still typing.
Pardon, whom am I messaging?
Clara. She types back. Because she might as well. The other person couldn’t see her face, and she could always say she just lied. That it would be funny. A real lark.
Pleasure to meet you, Clara.
The next messages come in short succession.
I’m Benoit Blanc.
You may google me, if you would like.
Now, what seems to be going on?
Some guy gave me your number. She replies.
Are you in immediate danger?
…
She pauses, biting her lip. She glances at the open frame where there used to be her door. She can still hear the football game, and it’d still be a couple of minutes to a commercial break, yet.
No. She lies. Well, not really. It wasn’t immediate. Not immediate-immediate. No more than usual. She could handle it.
What kind of danger?
How immediate?
Can you get to a safe place?
Her heart flutters. This—guy?—she scrolls up. ‘Benoit’ isn’t a name she’s ever seen. She decides to call him ‘bread guy,’ because his name looks kinda like ‘baguette’ and she can pronounce that.
I’m fine. she texts the bread guy.
You’re * lying *. he texts back.
It’s not immediate she counters.
Who are you? she asks.
I help people who are in trouble.
Who gave you my number?
She thinks this is a bad idea. But her life is full of bad ideas and even worse futures—when she struggles to imagine beyond the next two minutes. Some old guy she texts back.
a cop
…
…
Have you googled me, yet?
She does.