Page 2 of Heartfelt Pain
My eyes linger on the dented trunk. The back window is half busted out. I step back and Ben and Isolde are satisfied with following.
“Wait.” Abe stares over his shoulder but his feet follow. “We’re not actually going to leave him there?”
Ben tugs him close, his arm squeezing around his waist.
I’m happy for them. I am. But it sickens me sometimes when they show affection. Though, I suppose in the scheme of things, that shouldn’t be the one thing bothering me right now.
I know I’m not alone as I trample along, Isolde right on my feet, but it’s certainly fucking cold out.
“You want to call it in?” Isolde asks Abe.
“Why don’t you go ahead and tell the cops about the four other bodies,” Bennie suggests.
“Exactly!” his boyfriend argues. Abe shows his love through arguments. “We have a serial killer on the fucking lose. We can’t just let this shit go.”
“We’re not letting this shit go,” Isolde promises.
I pull my coat tighter. It’s a thin shell, the material meant to protect against rain and not the cold horror spreading through my sternum.
“Stop looking at me,” I tell Abe.
He opens his mouth, ready to lob a complaint. Bennie tucks him closer, drawing his attention. But it’s not enough to dispel Abe Fujimori.
“That’s five dead bodies, Ren.”
I regret letting him tag along. But he’d thrown a fit when we tried to leavewithout him.
“Five dead bodies all connected to you, Ren.”
“Babe,” Bennie tries.
Abe shakes his boyfriend off, whirls around, and stops me short. “When’s the last time you saw that guy?”
My chest squeezes tight. But I can’t help but notice a pair of bright blue eyes also trained on me. And Ben’s not objecting to the question either.
“Eighth grade?” Abe asks, disbelief and outrage mixed together. “We’re all in our twenties, Ren. Somebody fucking killed your childhood sweetheart. We should all be shitting our pants.”
“Do not shit your pants,” Isolde orders, warning clear in her tone.
“Yeah, babe,” Ben agrees. “Please don’t.”
Abe stomps his foot. “Stop acting like desensitized fools. There’s a fucking killer on the loose and they’re targeting our girl.”
“We’re fucking aware,” Isolde says, trudging forward. She’s the one who found the spot to sneak through along the fence line to get into the junkyard. Part of me feels like a teenager again, sneaking around with her friends.
But Abe’s right. This isn’t normal. Sure, we might all deal with shadowy figures on a daily basis, but finding your boyfriend from eighth grade dead is another matter.
“Bullet in the back of the head,” Ben says.
“Execution style.” Isolde looks at me. “Quick.”
I suppose she wants me to take comfort in that.
“If you guys aren’t freaking out now,” Abe asks, “when exactly do we start freaking out?”
We answer Abe as one. “Never.”
His steps falter before he runs to catch up.
