I close her door behind me and head to my room, checking my phone as I stumble through the stuffy hall.
It’s been four days since I’ve heard from August. He came on so strong and then … crickets.
Maybe this is all a game to him.
Some guys get off on screwing with people’s heads.
Or maybe he realized I wasn’t going to be an easy lay and he found someone else to chase.
An hour later, I’m still wide awake, damp with a thin layer of sweat and staring at the ceiling. Vincent Monreaux’s ice-white smile lingers in my head along with those familiar piercing gray eyes. And the way she reacted—with potent and virulent anxiety. It only created more questions—questions I couldn’t ask her for fear of making things worse.
Much like the baby they lost all those years ago, I can’t help but wonder what other things they’ve neglected to tell me over the years. What else has been glossed over and rewritten for the sake of leaving the painful past buried deep in the ground?
Sitting straight up, it hits me … there’s an album in the living room.
Mama calls it a memento mori—a reminder of death and mortality. A shrine, of sorts, to my aunt Cynthia. Though she’s always asked me not to touch it. But that was before, though, when I was too young to understand.
Tiptoeing to the living room, I dig the faded peach photobook from the TV cabinet and flick on the lamp by the side table.
The number of times my parents have discussed Cynthia’s death in front of me, I can count on one hand. At first, it was because I was too little to understand. Later, it was because it was too painful to unbox those memories. I never pried. I didn’t once feel the need go digging. I knew what I needed to know—that Vincent Monreaux killed my aunt and the local authorities helped cover it up because his daddy paid them off.
I don’t blame my parents for tabling that kind of talk. They’d already lived it once. They didn’t need to go through it all over again for my sake. But there are gaps in what I know. In all my life, I’ve never been given the full picture.
Settling into the sofa, I flip open the album, immediately greeted with the soft, sweet image of Aunt Cynthia’s school portrait. It’s faded, and the colors are a little off, like someone put an Instagram filter over it, though it’s nothing but age.
I stare at her features, memorizing them and trying to determine if we really do look alike. I’ve seen this picture before at my grandparents’ house. Daddy says I’m her spitting image. Though I’ve always favored the Rose side. We share the same blonde waves. The same deep set ocean-blue eyes. The same pointy chin and slightly-upturned nose.
I wish I could’ve had the chance to meet her.
Mama said Aunt Cynthia had the kind of personality that entered the room before she did. And the most contagious belly laugh. Long legs too. She said all the boys wanted to date Cynthia, but she had her heart set on Vincent—her brother’s best friend.
Inhaling, I turn the page, only to be met with a clipped newspaper obituary.
CYNTHIA GLADYS ROSE. AGE 17.
Cynthia Gladys Rose passed away unexpectedly Thursday, October 18th. A junior at Clark High School, Cynthia excelled in the dramatic arts, with a particular affinity for theater and debate club. Her favorite pastimes included summers at her grandparents’ cottage in Vermont and annual family camping trips in the South Dakota badlands. Cynthia had recently toured Great Western State University, with future plans to apply to their pre-law program.
She leaves behind her parents, Lorelai and Conrad, her brother, Rich. Her paternal and maternal grandparents. Fifteen cousins, a host of close friends, and her beloved rescue terrier-mix, Winnie.
My eyes prick with tears that I swipe away the second they slide down my cheeks.
My poor sweet aunt. It isn’t fair that she wasn’t able to live long enough to see adulthood. Or that her life was summarized in two brief paragraphs.
My heart tightens and aches for my parents, for my grandparents, for Cynthia.
Drawing in a deeper breath, I page ahead to another clipped article. Brief and vague.
The body of a local female resident was discovered at the Monreaux Quarry late Saturday night. Police have determined her cause of death to be strangulation. An investigation is underway and no suspects have been officially named.
The next article is wrinkled and blotted in parts. Tears, maybe?
Police have identified the victim in last week’s homicide as seventeen-year-old Cynthia Rose, a local junior at Clark High School. The county coroner has confirmed her cause of death as strangulation. Police Chief Rod Holbach states, “We have narrowed our list of suspects tremendously in the past week, and I’m confident that Cynthia’s killer will soon be brought to justice.”
My stomach drops when I get to the fourth page in the album—a mug shot of my father along with the headline: LOCAL MAN ARRESTED IN MURDER OF MEREDITH HILLS TEEN.
Meredith Hills Police have made an arrest in the murder of seventeen year old Cynthia Rose. After a thorough investigation, they have determined Ms. Rose was lured to the quarry by her older brother, Rich, where a physical altercation ensued and she was then strangled. A witness confirmed the two had not been on speaking terms and had been disputing over ownership of a personal property item. Multiple witnesses also said the night of the homicide, Rich Rose had been using illegal substances at a local party. Surveillance footage from Monreaux Quarry shows the blue and white 1986 Ford pickup belonging to Rich Rose at the scene of the crime.
All these years, not once did my parents tell me my father was actually arrested for Cynthia’s murder …
Knowing my father and the kind of man he is—and I have no doubts about how much he loved his little sister—there’s no way he’d be capable of doing something like that.
I don’t need to read another clipped article to know that my father is innocent, that he was set up.
Still, I’m ravenous for information. To piece together and make sense of all the things I never knew until now. But as I flip to the next page, my father’s headlights fill the living room window.
He’s home early.
My stomach flips, and I scramble out of my comfortable spot.
Closing the album, I return it to the TV cabinet, turn out the light, and head to my room.
It makes sense now—their over-protectiveness through the years. They must have been terrified of losing me the way they lost my aunt. And, knowing what the Monreauxs were capable of doing and the power they held over local law enforcement, I understand their intentions.
All of those exchanged glances that I could never quite interpret, finally make sense. Their hushed tones any time they vaguely discussed that dark period of their lives is now understandable. The reasons I was warned to stay away from that family at all costs...
My stomach in knots, I lie on top of my hot covers, warm air blowing in my face from the fan on my dresser.
I never should have snuck into his pool.
I never should have gone to that party.
And I sure as hell never should’ve given him my number.
My parents were right—Monreauxs are not to be trusted.
Chapter Nine
August
* * *
“Morning, August,” the white-haired receptionist in the front lobby greets me Thursday morning. She doesn’t point out the fact that I’m ninety minutes late or that my father would shit a brick of he saw me with my shirt untucked. He loves to remind me I’m a “practicing professional,” whatever the fuck that means.