Page 129 of Burning Embers
The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of police interviews and questions. It seems everybody who’s anybody wants to know what Lissa and I saw.
Did we notice anyone else in the barn?
Did we hear anything suspicious?
Did we see anything unusual?
The answer to all of that—at least from me—is a resounding no.
Lissa doesn’t have a response.
Mainly because she doesn’t remember going there in the first place.
She only woke from her trance when she began to scream, and even then, she passed out shortly after. That was how the police found us less than a half hour later—Lissa unconscious on the ground while I stood over a dead body.
I’m beginning to worry about my foster sister. She hasn’t talked about what transpired in the barn since the initial interview with the cops, and she’s withdrawn from everyone. She barely leaves her room, and when she does, it’s without that customary smile I’ve come to expect from her.
She’s a shell of her former self, walking aimlessly through the halls, her eyes glossy and vacant and devoid of any spark. She hasn’t even returned to school since the incident, and I heard whispers that Hale and Gerry are considering an online program for the remainder of the semester for her.
I don’t know if I’m necessarily faring much better. I still go to school and work, but there’s a constant weight on my shoulders that seems to be increasing by the day. It’s a suffocating sensation. Every time I close my eyes, I see the young woman’s face etched onto my eyelids, her expression twisted in fear and horror.
Did she feel any pain before she was murdered?
Do the police have any suspects?
Those questions reverberate through my head now as I head towards my Art class.
Recently, we’ve been working with acrylic paint, and though I definitely can’t say I’ve improved as an artist, I happen to like the class. It’s peaceful, and more than that, it’s an easy A. All we have to do is show up and try our best.
As soon as I’m in the classroom, I take a seat behind my easel and pull out my phone. I know it’s not healthy or even sane to fixate on the murder, but whenever I have spare time, I research everything I can about Alixandra. I’m becoming obsessed. Ineedto know what happened to her, and so far, I haven’t received any news from the police.
Not that they would tell me even if they had an update.
I scan through article after article, most of which I’ve already read. But there’s one, however, that causes me to pause.
It’s a recent piece, posted only an hour ago, and discusses Alixandra’s murder in gruesome detail. The author suspects it’s the work of a serial killer, especially since her death resembles that of a different young woman killed a month or so back.
The article provides a picture of the second victim, and my blood runs cold at the sight before me.
I…
I recognize her.
Iknowher.
Not well, of course, but I’ve talked to her. Shook her hand. Fought her.
Larissa, the woman I fought and beat in the ring.
An indecipherable feeling arrows through me as I stare at her smiling, heart-shaped face. And that strange feeling intensifies when I read the date she was murdered.
The same night of our fight.
I know it’s just a coincidence, but I can’t help but feel sick to my stomach.
Was I the last person she saw?
Where did she go after the fight?