Eye Candy

Taylor was dead.

I couldn’t make sense out of that or comprehend it. I don’t think I wanted to. No, she wasn’t. She was alive. She lied to Logan when she said she was with us because . . . I searched for reasons. Because she wanted to surprise him? Because she wanted to shop for a secret gift for him? Because—any reason, except the real one. Then she’d be alive. Then she’d be breathing and sitting next to me. She wouldn’t be covered in a blanket, and I wouldn’t be sitting in a neighbor’s living room, having a detective ask me questions that I couldn’t understand either.

I became a robot. That’s the only way I could keep going.

Mason was wringing his hands together. He was in the kitchen, just behind me. Heather was in a bedroom somewhere. They’d separated us and got a different detective to ask each of us what I was assuming were the same questions.

I told them what I knew.

Why hadn’t I gone and searched for her if I thought I’d heard her phone? They’d asked me that four times now. Every time felt like another knife plunged into my stomach. I could physically feel it, and they would stop, adjust their grip on it, and yank it all the way through me. I would split in half.

But every time they asked, I said the same thing.

I wish I had.

God, I wished I had.

I was probably crying. They didn’t care. I didn’t care. My hands were wet, so I assumed it was from that, but maybe I should have stopped assuming things. I had assumed Taylor wasn’t upstairs.

I’d been wrong.

What else had I assumed that was wrong?

A bubble worked past the two halves of my body, where they kept putting their knife in, and found its way in my throat, then up and over the lump that I had to stop trying to shove down. It came out, and when I heard what that bubble was, I was cringing again.

Hysterical laughter that bordered on mania.

I was a lunatic. And once the first bubble escaped, more kept coming. I couldn’t stop them.

The two detectives standing over me shared a look. I saw the sudden suspicion in their gazes. I mean, it had been there already, but it went to a whole other level now that they heard me laughing. I was having a gay old time. I was going on a rollercoaster. I was at an amusement park—the laughter stopped then.

Taylor and Logan fell in love on an abandoned roller coaster.

Yes.

The tears came again. A heavy wave each time, and they were cascading down my face.

How did I get here? How did Taylor end up dead? Who did this? Why hadn’t I looked upstairs?

I whispered, “This is all my fault.”

The cops were talking to each other. Their heads snapped to mine. One bent down, resting his hands on his knees. He was peering down at me, almost on my level, but not. Just above. He still had to maintain his intimidating height. He couldn’t do that if I started thinking he was on my level, that he was kind to me, that he cared about me.

He asked, “What did you say?”

I looked up, not giving one damn what they thought of me. I was Taylor. She was dead. So was I. “This is my fault.”

The second detective moved quickly. He made a gesture behind his back. A uniformed policeman brought one of the kitchen chairs over, and he sat on it. He softened his tone, but I knew it was a farce. All of this was a facade. He asked, as if he did actually care, “What do you mean when you say it’s your fault?”

“I heard her phone. If I looked, she might be alive.” She would be alive.

“No, Sam.”

Mason overheard me, and he left the kitchen. Four police got in his way, but he pushed against them. His eyes were only on me. He was holding an ice pack to his arm, like he’d been hurt. I frowned. When had he gotten hurt?

He shook his head. “This isn’t your fault. You could’ve been killed too. You have no idea.”

“But you were here.” I clung to his eyes. They were the only part of him I could hold on to at that moment. “You were in the car. Heather was too. If I’d gone in, you would’ve come looking for me.”

“And whoever did this could’ve gutted you.”

I flinched at that word—gut. But it was used correctly. She had been gutted. We all saw.

“Don’t blame yourself, Sam. Please don’t.” He was whispering. He was so agonized over what I was feeling.

Another reason among so many others why I loved him.

But he was wrong. I whispered, my throat burning, “I could’ve saved her.” I knew I was right. I could’ve, and I hadn’t.

All of this was my fault.

It wasn’t long, but it seemed to take forever for the authorities to show up when they did. We didn’t call them. One of the neighbors dialed 911 because of the screaming. We were still there, all still in our same positions when they came inside. Guns were drawn, then holstered when they saw there was no threat.

Time blurred after that.

I was led away, brought upstairs, and taken outside. I registered the feel of the air, and that I was crossing the street, then going into another home. Someone else lived there. I felt the aliveness of it. It was warm and loving, giving. It was what our house would never be again. At some point, I was shivering or trembling. Or, I don’t know. A blanket was draped over me at some point, but I don’t think it was because I was cold. They sat me in this living room chair and I wasn’t allowed to leave.

I could see outside, but I didn’t want to. I was waiting now.

Cop cars were everywhere, lighting up the street. An ambulance came. I didn’t know why. No one was hurt—wait, no. Mason had an ice pack, maybe he’d been the hurt one. Or maybe that was how they transported her body? That made more sense. They’d have to take her to get examined, because this was a crime. The morgue wouldn’t come to take her for a funeral.

She’d been murdered.

Our house was a crime scene.

We’d have to go to a hotel? I glanced up. The detectives were so suspicious of me. Would they even allow that? Maybe I’d sit in a cell? The thought of it almost warmed me. That made sense. I wasn’t going to sleep anyways. I didn’t think I’d sleep for the rest of my life. I could go there, be close to them for questioning, and I’d wait until they gave me answers. Who had done this? Why? Those were the most pressing ones.

I heard the screech of tires.

I’d been waiting for this, and I looked outside again.

Mason looked over—he’d been waiting as well.

A yellow Escalade careened to a stop. The door was thrust open and Logan launched himself out of the vehicle. I was sure the keys were still in there. The engine probably hadn’t been turned off.

I tensed.

Waiting.

Then—there it was. Another blood-curdling scream from inside the house.

I closed my eyes, knowing who the owner was, and held my breath. If he got in there, they wouldn’t let him get far.

“TAYLOR!”