Page 36 of The Birthday Girl
Vega slid the notebook back into his coat and turned for the steps, coat flaring in the night wind. Behind him, the Johnsons’ grief filled the silence, and Danielle stood in the doorway, trembling with her phone pressed to her chest, her sister’s name now hanging in the air like a loaded weapon.
13- Breaking News
Tahlia pushed through the door of Lenny's, inhaling the cloud of bacon grease and burnt coffee that had greeted her since childhood. The familiar scent made her sigh, not with disappointment but recognition. As she moved toward the counter, her fingers found the chip in the wood's edge without looking, the same rough spot her fourteen-year-old self traced while waiting for chocolate shakes after school.
“Two eggs over hard, wheat toast, crispy bacon,” a waitress yelled through the service window, never looking up from her crossword.
Her roots showed two inches of gray beneath a bottle blonde that matched the mustard stains on her apron.
Tahlia's heels stuck to the floor with each step, the red soles leaving momentary imprints in what might have been syrup from 2004. When she slid into booth seven, the vinyl crackled beneath her, its duct-taped seam catching the edge of her slacks just as it had snagged her backpack straps twenty years ago.
She slid into a corner booth, silk blouse tucked neatly into tailored slacks, diamonds at her ears catching the dull fluorescent light. It was a ridiculous contrast, and she relished it. The night’s work still lingered on her skin in memory, and it made her smile. Mercedes was gone, which meant she had one less pest from her childhood to worry about.
The obsession that had gnawed at her all of her life felt quiet now, like a hunger finally satisfied. She had always suspected that killing would be disappointing, that it would leave her emptier than before, but the reality was almost wholesome. The drone in her mind, always so loud with questions of what it would feel like, what it would cost, or what price the universe would extract for a life ended by her own hands, had evaporated. In its place was crystalline clarity, and the kind of peace reserved for the aftermath of controversy.
“What will you have?” A young waitress stood in front of Tahlia’s booth, pen in hand, ready to take her order.
“Good morning.” Tahlia's mouth pulled into something adjacent to a smile, muscles working like rusty hinges. Her eyes fixed on a brown splatter that bloomed across the wall tile behind the waitress in the perfect shape of Texas if you squinted. "Coffee. Black." She tapped two packets of sugar against the laminated menu. “And the French toast platter with crispy bacon. Make the eggs sunny, but cook them until the edges curl brown.”
“Comin’ right up,” the girl said, and left Tahlia alone, though the diner was never a place of privacy.
The television mounted over the counter flickered, the ESPN logo dissolving into the red banner of Channel 8 News. Forks around the diner paused mid-bite as a blonde anchor with too-white teeth appeared on the screen.
“Breaking news this morning from East Dallas,” the anchor's voice cut through the diner's clatter. “Police have discoveredthree bodies at an abandoned Kellam Street property in Brentwood Park. Local teenagers stumbled upon what authorities describe as a ‘gruesome discovery’—”
The cook turned up the volume with a greasy finger, his spatula forgotten on the grill.
The anchor continued, “Names of the victims have not been released, pending notification of kin, but police say foul play is suspected. Anyone with information is urged to contact authorities.”
The news cut to a live feed, and Tahlia grinned when she spotted the yellow tape surrounding the abandoned home. As officers hunched over their notepads, three body bags were being wheeled to the transfer van.
The more she stared at the screen, the more her smile widened, and the better she felt. It was like taking in a lungful of oxygen after years of holding her breath.
Mercedes’ death would always be the sweetest. That girl had laughed at her crooked teeth, passed notes about her thrift-store clothes, and made sport of her awkward silence. Killing her hadn’t been an act of rage. It had been restoration—a balancing of scales that had been tilted for too long in someone else’s favor.
Tahlia was so lost in her head that she didn’t notice the waitress standing at her table with the steaming cup of coffee.
“Ma’am?” the girl asked, her voice cutting into Tahlia’s reverie. “Are you… Are you okay?”
Tahlia blinked and slowly dragged her eyes from the television, the grin still clinging to her lips. She looked up at the waitress, who shifted uneasily under the intensity of her gaze.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Tahlia said as she wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug, letting the heat bleed into her palms.
“O-okay.” The waitress forced a nervous smile before retreating, leaving Tahlia alone again in booth seven.
The television droned on, but she no longer needed the sound. The sight of the body bags, the blur of flashing lights, was enough to seal the satisfaction thrumming through her chest.
She took her first sip of coffee and let the smile return. The bell over the door chimed, and when Tahlia glanced at the door, she spotted Dr. Farrell, her therapist, stepping inside with a manila folder tucked under his arm.
“Dr. Farrell.” The name left Tahlia's lips with just enough volume to cut through the clatter of silverware and morning conversations.
His head swiveled at the sound, manila folder clutched mid-air, coffee order forgotten. His gaze swept past her once before snapping back, recognition dawning across his face.
“Ms. Banks?” His brows lifted. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”
She smirked faintly, lifting her cup. “I wasn’t planning to be here, but the French toast is undefeated. I figured I’d treat myself since I woke this morning up in such a great mood.”
Dr. Farrell nodded, sliding into the booth across from her only after she gestured to the empty seat. “So, what has you feeling such greatness?”
