"What the hell is she doing out here?"
US-80 was a long stretch of nowhere, lightly traveled and poorly maintained. Those might have been farmlands to either side of the road, if weed farming were ever a profitable industry. Worn out and neglected barbed-wire fences showed that someone, somewhere, had once given half a care for the property but that was a long time ago. And on hot days, like today, the air baked itself raw, turning those fields of weeds into a phalanx of brittle dusty spears.
Trevor usually took the road at a fair pace through this stretch of his commute, but the sight of a pedestrian ahead made him cautious, and he slowed as he drew near. She was lean and coltish, all legs and arms and awkward gait. Her sweat darkened the thin fabric of shorts and shirt, and ran down her legs to pool in her sneakers. Wheat-colored hair was plastered to her scalp, tied back in a pitiful little tail that jutted out from the back of her head like a paintbrush. Here was a girl of threadbare means, a roadside orphan melting in the summer sun.
More than anything, more than concern for her safety, it was her eyes that made him pull over and stop. In that brief moment when he passed her she had looked at him, and her eyes were as vague and disinterested as creek stones. Doll's eyes in a doll's face, expressionless and numb.
And now as she grew larger in his side-view mirror, she let those eyes pass over his car without interest. She looked as though nothing in this moment of her life had the least bit of significance or meaning, so she had left her body on automatic and gone to play in the fields of her mind. It occurred to him she might have. Long Texas roads have that effect on some people. Hypnotic. Left on her own out here she might wander until she passed out, toppling over to disappear into the curtain of weeds never to be seen again. Later, he would think back to this moment and realize that he never actually decided to pick her up. It was just something that kind of happened to them.
The way she stopped when he rolled the window down made him think that, if he hadn't done so, she would have kept right on walking without breaking her stride. But he did roll the window down, and she did stop, leaning over ever so slightly to peer into the car at him with those lifeless eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Yes." It was just a word, without inflection or feeling of any kind. Just a word that had fallen from her lips.
"You sure?"
"Yes." That word again, same as the first time, giving the impression that it would sound the same every time she said it regardless of circumstance.
He furrowed his brow at her, frustrated. She stared back at him. Just waiting. "Do you want a ride someplace? Get out of this heat?" She let her gaze drop from his face, taking in his clothes, the worn and faded fabric of the car's interior. Her eyes paused for just a moment on the book in his backseat before returning to his face.
"Okay," she said, and opened the door to climb in. He could smell her immediately. She didn't smell dirty, but the biting stink of her sweat overpowered the faint odor of laundry soap and shampoo riding just beneath. His eyes stung and watered, as much from the smell as the heat. And yet, not an entirely unwelcome smell, and he could certainly appreciate the way it made the skin of her legs glisten and shine as she settled herself into the seat.
The first thing she did was reach into the back to retrieve the book. She didn't put her seatbelt on. She didn't say thank you, or introduce herself. She didn't do any of the things he might have expected her to do. She just sat there looking down at the book.
"So where can I take you?" he asked, wondering how long he would have her in his car. Wondering how long the scent of her would linger after he dropped her off.
"You can take me home."
"Just any home?" he asked, trying for a joke. "Or do you want to come to my home?"
"That's what I meant." He stared at her, bewildered though she took no notice of him. She opened the book and began to read. She read each page, scanning it dutifully from top to bottom. Even if the page was blank.
"Don't you have someplace to go?" Trevor asked. Surely she was kidding. Surely she hadn't set out on a walk in this heat with no destination in mind.
"No."
"Well," he said, too startled to make sense of his strange passenger. "That's where I was headed, so I guess it's on the way."
She said nothing. Just continued scanning pages like a photocopier.
He pulled back onto the road, trying to decide what to do with her. He was unaccustomed to the company of women, particularly pretty ones. He was too shy, his perception warped and muddied by poor self-esteem, and he had missed his opportunities to know love. There had been girls, just a couple. Brief encounters that teased him with a taste of possibilities never realized. His heart moved bruise-sore, but quick to want and desire, a stupid animal yearning through the slat bars of his ribs towards the girl riding shotgun in his car.
"I'm Trevor," he said, when the silence became too uncomfortable.
"Emily."
"Nice to meet you, Emily."
"Nice to meet you, Trevor."
"You, uh. Live around here?"
"No."
"Where do you live?"
"I don't live anywhere."
Acting on impulse, Trevor reached out his hand and placed it on her shoulder. She was still radiating warmth, and her skin was soft beneath his hand. She looked up from the book, but said nothing. She was just responding to his touch. Just offering her attention where it seemed to be required. He was suddenly embarrassed, and brought his hand back to the wheel. "Sorry. Just had to check and make sure you weren't a ghost or something."
"You can touch me if you want," she said, and bent her head back to the book, unconcerned.
This was not the reaction he had expected. It was, in fact, far better than the reaction he had expected. Emboldened, he reached out his hand again and let it rest atop her bare thigh. Her legs were warm and soft and firm, the legs of a girl who did a lot of walking. His belly clenched and fluttered with the thrill of touching her skin.
"You're probably going to get a sunburn," he told her, using the excuse to stroke her leg a little.
"Probably."
He watched her surreptitiously as he drove, but she never looked up from the book. It was a collection of short stories by a favorite horror writer. Some very dark and gruesome stories were in that book but the girl read without expression, unflinching and unimpressed. She might as well have been reading the phone book.
She didn't look up as they passed through the small town where he lived, not even when they had to stop at the town's only stoplight. As he waited for the light to change, he eyed the Dairy Queen across the street, thinking that this would be the time to drop her off if he was going to. But the light turned green, and he drove on homeward with that tickle of a thrill fluttering his belly as the intersection disappeared behind them. He didn't know what to expect from her when they got back to his place, but he wanted very much to find out. Trevor rented a small one-bedroom trailer in a nest of small one-bedroom trailers. They leaned towards each other like a discarded six-pack of empty beer cans. The man who owned the land had decided to make a little extra money by setting up the little trailer park and renting them out. Trevor suspected the arrangement was not entirely legal. But the owner had made it clear that Trevor was just renting the land, though he was welcome to use whatever resources Trevor found on it. And if there happened to be a little trailer out there hooked up to the water and utilities, well, wasn't that lucky? No phone lines at all, but television reception was fine with a decent set of rabbit ears, so no one complained too much. The pay phone at the corner store up the street saw a lot of business from his neighbors, but Trevor didn't have much use for it.
Emily finally looked up from the book when Trevor turned off the engine. She let the book close without marking her place, and returned it to the backseat behind her, forgotten as soon as it left her hands. She paid little attention to her surroundings as she stepped out into his little plot of yard. A passing glance around her satisfied whatever curiosity or concern she might feel. Trevor, though, felt a bit anxious getting out of the car. His neighbors all knew that he had no girlfriend, and some of them liked to joke that he was gay. It might be nice to put such talk to rest with something more interesting. But there was no one about, and Trevor escorted the girl up the stairs and into the trailer.
His home was a scavenger's squalor of discarded furnishings arranged haphazard and thoughtless. His possessions seemed washed up on his floor by half-crazed tides of caprice, and left to stand where they settled. Everything leaned and tilted, geometries warped by their journey from dumpster to doorstep. The colors ran together and mingled unhappily, a palette of fades and stains. He sometimes joked that he did all his shopping in the dumpster behind Goodwill. The joke never went over because visitors couldn't be sure he wasn't serious. He decided to skip it this time.
"Sorry it's not much, but I try to keep it cozy."
"Cozy," she repeated. Did she mean that it was, or was she being ironic? Either way, she took a seat on the worn couch and tucked her hands between her legs. She stared at nothing. Quietly.
"Thirsty?"
"I guess."
"I bet you are after that walk." When she made no reply, he stepped into the little kitchenette and drew two cups of water from the gallon jug in his mini-fridge. The local tap, drawn straight from Lake Tawakoni and flavored by the municipal pipe system, but cold as his little fridge could make it. He set one of the cups down on the piano bench before her, and sat down at the other end of the little couch. It tilted just a little when he sat, but Emily didn't react.
"Do you like sex?" she asked.
Trevor stammered, grateful she wasn't watching to see how he blushed. "Of course I like sex." It was all he could think to say.
"You can have sex with me if you do something for me."
That was when Trevor realized she wasn't human. She was some robot-human hybrid sent to earth to collect reproductive samples. In a spaceship orbiting the planet, a tiny gray alien was pushing buttons and levers around, making her move and act and carry words. It was the only thing that made sense.
"Um. What?"
"There's something I need done. I can't do it myself. If you do it for me, I'll have sex with you." At no point during her little speech had a flicker of emotion touched her voice, nor expression graced her face. She was just a courier of words.
"It's the only thing I have."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to kill me."
Trevor gaped at her from across the couch. A couch that suddenly seemed much smaller than it used to be.
"Before or after?" he asked.
"Before or after what?"
"Sex."
"I don't care."
"You can't be serious."
"I am."
"Why?"
"Because I want to be dead."
"Why do you want to die?"
"I don't want to die. I want to be dead."
"But." Trevor realized he was holding a cup of water, and brought it to his lips to bide for time.
"I understand." She looked away from him, finding nothing to look at and studying it attentively. "Thank you for the water. Can I stay tonight?"
"I uh. I guess." That was it? Hi my name is Emily. You can touch me if you want to. I want you to kill me. Thank you for the water.
"The couch is fine."
"I'll get a blanket. And pillow." Trevor shuffled into his bedroom in a daze. There was a pretty, suicidal girl sitting on his couch, and he was going to get her a blanket and pillow so she could sleep comfortably. The irony was dreadful. What was wrong with her? Why did she want to die? What could be so awful? He took his winter blanket from the closet and his spare pillow from the bed, wondering what to do about her. He should call the cops of course, or EMS. Alert someone. But his heart was a stubborn hopeful thing, and it ached. It cracked and split like a dry creek bed, hungry for rain. He stood in the half-light of his bedroom clutching the pillow to his face and breathing hard through its musty fabric until he regained his composure.
He returned to the living room and set the blanket and pillow on the floor beside the couch. "Are you hungry?" he asked.
She didn't respond at first, considering the question. "If a person dies of hunger because they refused food, would that be suicide?"
"I think so."
Emily nodded. "Yes. I'm hungry."
Trevor left her on the couch to scavenge food for the two of them. As he pushed canned foods around in his cupboard he realized that he was beginning to take her strangeness in stride. Not as though it was normal behavior, but as though it was normal for her. It was a kind of strange he was already becoming accustomed to. There was a jumbo can of spaghetti that he had been intending to split into two meals, but decided it would do as dinner. He dumped the contents of the can into a large plastic bowl and set it in the microwave to heat. He pushed the buttons, watched the little bowl circle the machine's interior, and as the microwave hummed and whined he realized he had become fond of her. He liked her. He liked her and he didn't want her to die.
He left the microwave to its business and stepped back into the living room. Emily was right where he had left her, sitting on the couch with her hands on her knees, watching the nothing happen. She was so pretty. So small and vulnerable. A desire to protect her stirred within him, and with it a desire to love her. He knelt on the floor before her and she turned her head towards him so their eyes met.
"Why do you want to be dead?" he asked.
"I'm tired." At first Trevor thought she meant that she didn't want to talk about it, but she continued. "I'm done with life. I'm ready, that's all."
"But you don't want to kill yourself. You want me to do it for you."
"It doesn't have to be you."
"But you don't want to do it yourself. Why not?"
"Because suicide is a sin. I'll go to hell."
"Hell?"
Emily nodded.
"But. What happened? Why do you want to do this?"
"Nothing happened. I'm just ready."
Trevor stared at her, his heart racing against his mind to see which would break first.
"Don't cry," she said, and wiped a tear from his cheek. "Death doesn't have to be sad. I'm just leaving is all. Moving on."
"But someone is going to hurt you. Someone is going to kill you."
"Yes."
"I don't want that to happen."
"What if it was you?"
"I can't do that."
"Not even to protect me?"
"How can I do that by-" he couldn't say the words.
"You're a good man. You won't hurt me more than you have to. Think about the man that will kill me. Think what he'll do that you never would."
Trevor thought about it. His belly turned cold. He wasn't hungry anymore. He thought he might never be hungry again.
"I'd let him, too, if he gave me what I want. You could protect me from that," she said, and wiped away another tear from his face. "But you don't have to. I know it's hard."
They ate in silence, spooning lukewarm spaghetti into their mouths automatically. Chewing and swallowing automatically. They didn't speak. Emily because that was her way. Trevor because his thoughts were racing down the long back trails of his mind, wondering just what he was capable of. Just what, exactly, he was prepared to do for love.
He realized Emily had set down her bowl and was watching him. He wondered if she could read his mind.
"I need a bath," she said.
"I'll do it," he said.
Trevor's bathtub was tiny, but somehow they both fit with enough room left over for water. They made love with her on top, splashing water over the rim to spill across the linoleum. Puddles finding their perfect fit. There was nothing mechanical about their lovemaking. Trevor moved slowly at first, shy until he realized Emily would accommodate his wishes. He washed her with his own hands; she washed him with hers. They made the water soapy, then lathered it with the motion of their bodies moving against each other. Trevor regretted the loss of her sweaty stink, and vowed to keep her clothes, unwashed, whatever else might happen.
Afterwards, Emily let the water out of the tub, and refilled it with clean warm water. They shivered against each other when the water drained, and held each other until the warmth returned. Emily lay back into the water, and Trevor straightened in the tub to give her room to float.
"A rat fell in the pool," she said. She gripped his waist with her legs, his knees with her hands. She leaned back into the water and her hair spread out about her head like a halo of somber brown light. She turned her face to the ceiling and closed her eyes.
"What?"
"When I was a girl. A rat fell into the pool. It couldn't get out."
"Oh."
"My daddy got the leaf-scooper, the one with the long pole, and he scooped the rat. He held it under the water until it drowned."
"Oh."
She opened her eyes and looked at Trevor. "It didn't take long. The rat struggled at first. Bit at the netting. But then it stopped. I saw it's throat working as it tried to breath the water. Then it stopped doing that, too."
Trevor said nothing.
"It didn't take long. Maybe ten seconds. Twenty. And the rat wanted to live." She turned her face upwards again, and let her eyes close.
Trevor's hands moved at the ends of his arms. They moved to Emily's face, to her hair so soft in the water. They traced the lines of her jaw and settled onto her shoulders. He was at odds with himself. He knew what she wanted from him, obligated by the laws of their pact, but the deed was unthinkable. His heart mewled and blubbered, made pathetic by gratitude and sick devotion. He sobbed and shook, and Emily's hands tightened on his knees, waiting. Ready.
"I can't," he whispered, and his hands moved to the back of her head, lifting her up from the water. She let her eyes open and looked to Trevor, her hands tightening against his skin. He wondered if that were anger.
"Please," she said. Just a word. Just a noise that her mouth made.
"I can't. Not tonight."
"Please."
"I have to work tomorrow. I can't dispose-" another sob, and Trevor bent his head to hide from her eyes.
"Okay," she said, and raised a foot to toe the tears from his face. "Okay. Not tonight."
The next day was Friday. Trevor managed to convince Emily to wait until he got home from work. He would fulfill his promise then. With the weekend ahead of him he would be able to do whatever needed to be done once Emily was dead. She had nodded, seeing the sense of it. Not wanting to be a bother.
He worked distractedly, checking customers out at the electronics store in Tyler. He passed barcodes across the scanner, quoted prices, doled out change and receipts like a vending machine. His co-workers tried to engage him in their usual banter, but Trevor wasn't paying them any attention and in time they gave up. He was thinking about Emily, at home on the couch in one of his old shirts, face pointed at the television. She had promised she wouldn't... do anything... until he got home, and he believed her though he still worried. When his shift was over, he felt torn. He wanted nothing more than to hurry back to her, make sure she was okay. But if he went home she would expect him to keep his promise. He wandered the aisles of the store, wasting time, wondering what he could do to change her mind. Was there anything? Anything at all?
Trevor lingered in the dvd section and it occurred to him that he could bring a movie home with him. That would buy an hour or two. Delay things. Maybe she would fall asleep watching and he wouldn't have to... do it... tonight. The movies were expensive though, and Trevor's money was precious. He glanced about him and nervously grabbed a couple of movies at random. Shoving them up the front of his shirt he made for the back exit where he wouldn't set off the security alarms. He had never stolen anything before, but if it bought Emily just a few more hours he would steal everything in the whole damned place.
On the way home he passed the spot where he had picked her up and realized that he would pass that spot a dozen times a week for the rest of his life. And every time he would think of her. His heart ached at the thought. A promise of the misery he was headed for.
He pulled his car up in front of the trailer and climbed out, too distracted to notice his neighbors sitting around a card table next door playing dominoes.
"Hey, pinche hoto!" one of them called to him enthusiastically. Trevor raised his hand to them and marched up the steps to his door and entered.
"Fucking faggot," she said from the couch.
"What?" Trevor gaped at her. There was no anger in her voice, and she didn't look at him. She just stared at the television like she had when he left that morning.
"That's what he called you. The man outside. Did you know that?"
"That's. No, I didn't."
"I don't like them." Emily turned to watch him as he locked the door behind him and stepped to the couch. "They're mean to you. I don't like them."
"Did you talk to them?"
"No. I don't want them to know I'm here."
That was good, then. He didn't want anyone to know she was here, either. He had decided on the way home. He wouldn't call the cops or anyone. Whatever happened, whatever they did, it should be private. Nothing could be more personal than what they were doing.
"Did you eat?" he asked, and stepped into the kitchen.
"No. I thought it would be best. I don't want to make a mess when I die."
In the kitchen, Trevor saw that her cup had moved, so he knew she had had water at least. "You should eat," he said. "Don't worry about anything else."
"I don't want to be an inconvenience."
Trevor laughed, the first rueful laugh of his life. "Inconvenience," he repeated. "I'll make some food. Will you eat? It can't matter now."
"Okay," she said after a pause.
"I got some movies, too. We can watch them while we eat." Trevor tried to sound casual, but he held his breath until she answered.
"Okay."
The movies turned out to be a four-episode disc of a children's educational program and an AC/DC rockumentary. Not what he would have chosen if he'd been paying attention, but he didn't care as long as she watched them with him. He talked to her while he cooked - Hamburger Helper without any meat and a can of creamed corn - and tried to make her laugh. She never laughed, but once or twice she said, "That's funny." He supposed that was laughter for her.
They watched the kid's shows while they ate, Trevor insisting on watching all the special features. He cleared the dishes before putting in the AC/DC movie, and sat next to her on the couch. Emily watched dutifully, and Trevor wondered if she were interested. Bored, scared or impatient, he couldn't tell. He watched her watch the film, and let his hand stroke her hair as his heart broke with glacial speed. He put his hand aside her face and turned her towards him. She said nothing, and so he kissed her. He kissed her with one hand in her hair, the other resting against the skin of her cheek, desperate to memorize the feel of her. She was warm and soft and alive. He wanted her to stay that way forever.
Trevor pulled his shirt up over her head and let it drop to the floor. He lay her down on the couch and she pulled him down with her, working at the buttons and zippers of his clothing. The movie played on, oblivious, and outside his neighbors were getting rowdy with their Friday night fiesta. They ignored the noise, ignored the world as they wrapped around each other. Trevor pulled her against him desperately, trying to shield her, trying to pull her inside him where she would always be safe.
Afterwards she lay curled into him on the couch, her face pressed against his chest.
"Isn't there anything you'll miss?" he asked her quietly. "Anything you want before..."
"Coffee," she whispered. "With peppermint."
"Peppermint?"
She nodded against him. "Peppermint sticks. Like at Christmas."
"So you what? Put the peppermint stick in your cup?"
"Stir it."
"I could do that. I'll go into town, to the store."
"Okay."
"But. The store will be closed, now. I'll have to go in the morning."
Emily said nothing.
"Will that be okay? Tomorrow?"
"Okay," she said. "Tomorrow."
Trevor sighed and wrapped his arms about her. The stores would be open late on a Friday night. He regretted lying to her, but not the time his lie bought them. He wondered if she knew he was lying, and thought that she probably did.
The next few days passed this way with Trevor finding excuses to delay their pact until the next day. By Tuesday he was able to convince her to wait until the weekend, for the same reason he had used that first night. "Okay," was all she ever said, and it became Trevor's favorite word. By Thursday he allowed himself to believe that she was coming around. That maybe she would change her mind, and choose to stay with him. She continued to wear his shirts, her own clothes left untouched on the bedroom floor from that first night. Even though the smell of her had changed with regular bathing, he was determined to keep that souvenir in case things didn't go the way he hoped. He made her coffee every morning before he left for work, setting the machine to brew and placing one of the little plastic-wrapped peppermint sticks in an empty mug beside it. Every night when he returned the mug would be cleaned in the sink, the peppermint gone, its wrapper tucked neatly into the trash. She didn't eat much, but she always ate what he fed her. The grocery bill was twenty dollars higher that week, but he didn't mind the extra cost. He continued to steal movies from work though he practiced more discretion with his choices. He would spend every day behind the register thinking about which movies she might like, and if there were any that might help her decide to give up her death wish and stay with him.
Friday night he made the trip home with mixed feelings. Anxious to see her, hopeful that she would not ask him to fulfill his promise, fearful that she would. His heart kicked as he drove past their spot on US-80, but the place had a sort of romantic fixation for him now. He had begun to think that they might drive passed it together someday when they had worked things out. He had the idea, then, that if she asked him to do it he would bring her here. He would tell her it was an isolated place, and when they got here he would talk to her. He would tell her that he loved her, and that he wanted her to stay with him. It would be romantic, like in a movie, and she would say "Okay."
By the time he got home and climbed the few steps into his trailer he was feeling confident and happy. Tonight would be the night that Emily relented, and gave up her wish to die.
Emily was not sitting on the couch when he entered. There was a little piece of paper, folded over once, where she always sat. He held his breath until he reached the couch, letting his movies fall to the floor as he reached for the note. She had given up on him. She had left. He had been wrong to think he could change her mind. But he would find her, wherever she had gone, and they would have that talk, and everything would still be okay.
He picked up the letter and read the first line of Emily's careful handwriting. He got no further. The letter crumpled into a ball in his fist as he stumbled into the bedroom, searching. "Emily," he choked on the word, scanning the bedroom without finding her. He ducked into the bathroom and fell to his knees, sobbing. Emily lay in the tub, face turned towards the ceiling and eyes staring. "A rat fell into the pool," she had said.
"No." Trevor crawled to her on hands and knees, mind separating from body. There was no water. She had messed herself, but was considerate enough to leave her mess in the tub so Trevor could clean up easily. Her coffee mug rested on the toilet seat, half of a peppermint stick floating in the lukewarm liquid. He touched her hair, and it was as soft as he remembered, but her flesh was cold and dead.
Dear Trevor,
I'm sorry I tricked you. You are a good man. I know you wanted to save me. But I am tired and ready to leave now. It was wrong of me to ask you to do that, but I didn't know you when I asked. Now I do, and I am sorry. I know you wouldn't hurt me on purpose, so I put the poison in the coffee mix Thursday night while you slept so you wouldn't know that you were poisoning me. It was cyanide. It kind of tastes like almonds. I waited until Friday so you would have time to get rid of my body. I'm sorry if I made a mess. Thank you for the sex. It was good.
Love,
Emily
For a long time he could do nothing but cry as he sat on the bathroom linoleum, holding Emily's hand. When he stopped crying it was only because he had no more tears left, though his body still shuddered with dry sobs. He wrapped her body in trash bags and taped them closed against her. He drove her down to US-80, to their special place. He dug a hole, as deep as he could manage, and buried Emily with coffee grounds and peppermint sticks. He poured transmission fluid over her grave so the animals would leave it alone, then got back in his car and drove home.
He slept all the next day, his face pressed into Emily's sweat-stained shirt.
On Monday morning he called in sick, though he really couldn't afford to. He would make up the shift later in the week. He pulled Emily's shirt and shorts onto his spare pillow and held it tightly as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling with eyes that showed no hint of his thoughts or the anguish he felt. He found the little tinfoil square in the pocket of Emily's shorts, and the little packet of powder it held. He wondered where she had gotten it. He set it on the counter in his kitchen, between the coffee machine and the half-empty box of peppermints. He thought about using it, but suicide was a sin and he would go to hell. He would never see Emily again if he did that
He tried to return to his normal routine. His co-workers commented on the change in him, but only to each other. His boss asked him into the office to ask if he was okay. "Yes," Trevor told him. It was just a word. Just a sound his mouth made. He did his job automatically until his boss pulled him from the register and gave him a new job as a stocker. There was a pay cut, a quarter an hour, but Trevor didn't notice the difference it made in his paycheck.
At home he would sit on the couch with Emily's pillow on his lap, face turned towards the television. He tried to think of ways that he could die without killing himself, but found he lacked Emily's courage and genius.
This went on for nearly two weeks before his next visitor arrived. Late on a Tuesday night there was a knock at his trailer door. Trevor set Emily's pillow down on the couch and rose to answer it, only vaguely curious as to whom it might be. It occurred to him that it could be the cops. They had found Emily's body and they would try and convict him of murder. He would plead guilty and beg for the death penalty. Maybe he would even get it. The idea gave him hope for the first time since Emily died, and he decided that he would turn himself in at the first opportunity. Emily would understand.
"Are you Trevor?" she asked. It wasn't the cops. It was a young woman, tall and curvy with tangles of thick black hair falling past her shoulders. Her clothes were dirty and sweaty, and her skin was red and pealing from the sun. Her large black eyes stared, vague and detached as her voice.
"Yes," he said.
"I'm Lucy."
"Nice to meet you Lucy."
"Emily told us about you. She said you would help us."
"When did you talk to Emily?"
"Couple weeks ago. Called from a pay phone in the middle of the night. Woke me up. Said she found a man in Texas that would understand. Do you?"
"Yes." It was just a word.
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