I wondered then, in my room, after finding the girl’s body, was she one of those surfing-by-day-and-camping-by-night-in-the-tunnel girls?
Neighbors gathered on the Marlos’ front lawn the next day. Viv tried to eavesdrop from the porch swing. They shooed her away before she learned anything useful. But she could tell the adults had hunches.
That same day, a woman I recognized only from seeing her on parade floats visited us. Dad introduced her as Mayor Carver. Mom said they needed to have a grown-up talk with me. The woman started out nice. So sorry you had such a scare. Her tone grew accusatory as she warned me not to share details of the incident with anyone but my parents. You don’t want to scare people more than they already are, do you? I didn’t think so. Then you shouldn’t mention how she looked. No need to tell anyone about the T-shirt and the rocks and all that nonsense. I didn’t answer.
On the third day after, Viv, Graham, and I were in the barn. I was sprawled on the floor, back of my skull on the flat of a raised nailhead protruding from a plank. It hurt, but I was the kind of bored that makes you pick a scab, that used to make Graham and me dare each other to reach into a snake hole. Viv was tossing chocolate-covered raisins at the book in Graham’s hands, and he was complaining that I’d given up on the true crime paperback we were three-quarters of the way through, each taking our turn with a chapter, when there was a knock on the slider. I sat up too fast. Amid the stars firing off, the strange boy with the notebook waved through the glass. There was a rush of relief, like I’d been raw and itchy waiting for him to show up already, and once he had I could be normal again.
Harry’s family had moved into the ranch house up the street, the one the grown-ups called the rental. Harry’s dad was trying to resuscitate its patchy lawn; his mom was giving the shutters a fresh coat of paint. Harry came searching through the apple orchard like we’d drawn him in as the sirens had three days before. It seemed close to magic to me. Really, Graham had hung out with Harry the day before and invited him to find us in the barn the next afternoon.
It was obvious that our threesome had been inadequate once he was with us. He plopped down on a beanbag chair and showed us his notebook, full of observations from the few days he’d lived in Seven Hills. He’d noticed things from when I found the dead girl that I hadn’t. Like that an officer started taking pictures of Graham’s watermelon in the dirt like it was a part of the investigation. And that a woman who had a dog wearing a sweater stood chatting with the police. Mayor Carver, Graham informed us. Harry was born to be a journalist.
Before I realized it, I admitted that I’d been dreaming about the dead girl. Graham admitted he’d been late with the watermelon because Stepdad Number Three refused to give him a ride; Graham hoped his mother would divorce him soon. Harry had a way of getting you to say what you were dying to, just by being a good listener.
Viv, gnawing on her nails, stayed quiet and eyed Harry. He tossed one of her chocolate-covered raisins into the air; her caution waned as one after another pinged off his teeth. He was terrible at catching them, but his eyes shone as he kept trying. He was nothing like the boys at school with their easily shattered egos, boys who lashed out if you laughed at them. Eventually Viv blurted, “You didn’t see me at the rock when we found the girl because I had to go in the house and wait for the police with my mom. She has cancer. It means she gets tired really easily. But I was there.”
Harry gave a solemn nod, seeming to understand that even in this awful thing, no one wanted to feel left out.
How didn’t the three of us combust without Harry?
In the middle of all the intrigue, we became four.
Within the week, Viv’s dad found tracks circling the ancient rock and leading through the orchard. They were slots made by something between a paw and a hoof. The plainclothes officer snapped pictures. He asked if we’d seen signs of the girl squatting in the barn or camping in the orchard. Did food disappear or sleeping bags vanish? Had we ever found the remains of candle wax on the rock? Bizarre symbols drawn on top? Which didn’t make sense because in the next breath he told us she wasn’t killed here in Seven Hills, but elsewhere, where a bad person hurt her and tried to get away with it by dumping her in our nice little town.
Regardless, I thought of her as Goldilocks.
Picture it. Charming seaside town. Seven golden foothills forming a wall around it. Past the threshold of sight and sound from any neighboring cities. More pastel beach cruisers than cars. Rooftop decks with barbecues and chairs facing the sea. A scatter of sand across sidewalks, blown in by the wind. And kids of the summer, barefoot, freckled, and sunburned. In Seven Hills, windows and doors stayed open to catch the salt spray off the Pacific.
A body shows up. A girl. About nineteen. Blunt force trauma. Strangulation. No sign of sexual assault. At first the police hide that she was staged. And then a photo of the body is sent anonymously to the Seven Hills newspaper, and the whole town learns that she was killed and staged to have wings, on an ancient meteorite, its own history involving birds, buried in the identical position. The mysteries pile up. No one does a thing.
The police never talked to us about her again. School started. Viv and Graham had also received visits from the mayor, asking them not to scare our peers with what we saw, like Goldilocks had been a particularly grisly nightmare, better forgotten in the light of day.
From a classmate whose parent wasn’t careful about being overheard, we gathered that Goldilocks remained a mystery. During the first week of classes he reported to a grave audience of middle schoolers in the cafeteria. The police believed one of two things had transpired: Either the runaway was dumped by someone who didn’t live in Seven Hills or the whole killing had been committed by her band of runaway teens. They’d heard about the meteorite and traveled to worship an alien-devil on its altar. They were troubled youths—drinking, drugs, sex—and one of them ended up sacrificed on the rock. Our classmate reported his mother saying Surprise, surprise. Girls like that always think it’s a game until it isn’t.
Whichever explanation, the police said whoever committed the crime had moved on. Fled. Would never risk returning. Had never meant any harm to Seven Hills or its residents. Nothing to fear. You’re safe here.
All those strange pieces were laid out, begging us to pick them up. We wouldn’t until five years later, after the night of the slaughterhouse. When we did, rather than setting out to solve Goldilocks’s killing, I’m ashamed to say our motivations were closer to this:
I wanted to play a game.
Boredom was always chasing us.
I dreaded saying good-bye.
Revenge seemed like a bright idea.
4
The slaughterhouse’s silhouette was black and flat against the sky. It was the first Friday night of September, a little past ten, the heat stubborn, stuck like the backs of my thighs on the vinyl upholstery. Radio stations turned to static in Seven Hills, but even if they hadn’t, Harry’s speakers didn’t work. The air conditioner blasted lukewarm air. We would have been more comfortable in my hatchback, or Graham’s sedan, and especially in Viv’s roomy SUV. But Harry was the only one of us who’d bought his car with money he earned; what kind of jerks would we have been to refuse riding in the spoils of all that hard work?