Free Ember X by Jessica Sorensen Page B

better look.

    “Somebody probably did something stupid,” she replies in a bored tone as she inspects her fingernails for chips.

    The line of cars crawls forward and Raven presses on the gas, driving by slowly. In the middle of the taped off section, an X is spray-painted across the asphalt and smashed into the cement barrier of the bridge is a rusted black Cadillac. The windows are broken, the hood is demolished, and there’s blood dripping from the back tire. And there are black feathers on the ground and on the hood.

    “Isn’t that Laden’s?” I squint at the car. “Oh my God, it is.”

    “Hmm… I guess he must have got into some trouble last night.” She smiles at the thought.

    “This couldn’t have happened last night,” I say. “I just saw Laden this morning.”

    “How can you be sure of what you saw?” she questions with a sparkle in her eye.

    I eye her over questionably. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

    “There’s a lot of things I’m not telling you.” She grins and cranks up the stereo.

    I turn back to the scene. There’s an hourglass painted on the back of the window in red, and feathers all over the hood and the ground. It’s the exact scene of when the police found my dad’s car, just a different location. And I worry that, like with my dad’s disappearance, I’ll become the prime suspect.

Chapter 6

    When night arrives, I don’t visit the cemetery. The news announced that Laden is considered a missing person and that there is evidence of foul play. My mom ended up skipping out on dinner and so Raven took her place at the table. She acted like a lunatic, like she was high on the news of Laden’s disappearance, or high on something.

    While Raven and I were out shopping, I tried to press her about the details of last night, but she shifted the conversation to clothes every time. I end up going to bed early, but late during the night, I’m woken up by the sound of my mom’s voice.

    “Ian,” she yells up the stairs in a drunken slur. “I need your help.”

    Ian is locked away in the attic, with his “muse,” a mysterious person that sneaks in every night so he can paint them. I climb out of bed and pad to the top of the stairway.

    “Mom, Ian’s in the attic,” I say tiredly, rubbing my eyes and yawning. “What do you need?”

    She frowns up at me. “I need help getting up the stairs.”

    I sigh and trot to the bottom of the stairway. Her brown hair is disheveled and knotted and her eyes are bloodshot. She used to be pretty, but her lifestyle has rapidly aged her.

    She tugs down the hem of her dress and drapes her arm around my neck, sighing. She smells like tequila and cigarettes and her death omen smothers me, like it always does when I come into contact with her. She’s lying in a bed of pills and bottles, dying in her own flames. Holding my breath, I guide her to her room, lie her down on the bed, and slip off her high heels.

    She blinks at me through her blurry eyes. “You look so much like him,” she mutters. “You have his eyes and everything.”

    She’s referring to my father. “Shhh… Get some rest,” I say, tossing her shoes onto the floor.

    “I wonder if you’ll turn out like him,” she says, rolling onto her side. “I bet you will… A killer… You did kill your grandma.”

    Her words stab at my heart, like a rusty, jagged knife, but it’s not the first time she’s uttered them. “Mom, Dad didn’t kill anyone.”

    “Yes, he did… Yes, he did.” She drifts off to sleep.

    I force back the tears and rush out of her room. I don’t cry—I never do—but I can’t fall back asleep. So I read Cameron’s poem, over and over again until the words blur together and make no sense at all. Just like my life.

    ***

    I’m running late the next morning and if I don’t hurry my ass up I’m going to be late for my English class. There are bags under my bloodshot eyes and I look pallid. I quickly get dressed in torn