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?
Harry’s car dipped and jumped over the road’s potholes. He drove so slowly that there wouldn’t have been a breeze with the windows down, but plenty of mosquitoes. Viv periodically slapped her neck until, with an elongated sigh, she shook her hair out of its braid and hid under it.
“If one more bloodsucker bites me, I’m going to start biting back,” she said. She didn’t stutter on S words anymore, just overenunciated them in a way that made me think she was remembering having been teased.
“I’d like to see that,” Graham said.
Viv twisted, snapped her jaw, and smiled. “I bet you would.”
She flipped the front vents closed. “I think they’re crawling through the air conditioner.”
Harry made a noise like a snort and flicked it off.
We were ten miles outside of town, navigating a one-lane road through a ravine, headed to its only destination, the slaughterhouse. It was easy to forget this place existed. Who’d want to remember? A hundred or so seniors every September, that’s who. And the four of us, along with our peers, as the timeworn tradition of Senior Class Slumber Fest dictated, were about to spend the night there. Basically we were planning to slumber it in hell.
Graham lifted his flask. His mother had arrived home the day before after a summer-long absence. His head touched the car ceiling each time we hit a bump and his strawberryblond hair stood with static electricity. “This one’s for Izzie. The only girl who’s seen me naked and managed to resist jumping me.”
I tucked my legs beneath me and took a nip of the spicy liquor. “I don’t think you being six, scarfing too many cookies, puking on your pants, and needing to take a bath at my house counts as me seeing you naked.” Viv laughed so suddenly she snorted. She covered her face. Her eyes smiled out between her fingers; there were tiny glow-in-the-dark skulls painted on her nails.
“How were you not scarred for life?” Harry asked.
Viv giggled. “Who says she’s not?”
Harry mimed tipping a hat to her.
I threw my arm to my forehead. “It’s only because I’ve seen hundreds of guys naked that I’m able to block out the trauma of Graham.”
Graham pinched just above my kneecap, a spot that made me laugh abruptly and shove him away. “More like my naked glory ruined you for all others.” He took the flask as he slouched back.
Viv winked at me and said, “I think Graham’s teensy-tiny little baby weenie is why Izzie won’t go farther than kissing.”
“She’s right,” I whispered, hands over my heart, “I imagine it in place of the boy’s face. It’s why I can’t stomach baby carrots.”
Harry groaned. “Now I need a lobotomy.”
Viv flipped the mirror down. “Baby carrots are an abomination of nature,” she stated without a trace of humor curling her mouth’s reflection.
Graham tapped his window. “Why are there no other cars on the road?”