Free This Is How It Ends by Jen Nadol

house door.
    They were all there—Trip, Tannis, and Sarah—their faces pale and serious. Sarah had been crying.
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked.
    â€œHe was shot in the head and chest,” Trip said bluntly.
    â€œWho . . .” I couldn’t even finish the sentence.
    â€œI don’t think they have any idea yet, Riley,” Sarah said. Her voice was shaky. “And Nat—”
    She stopped, trying to catch her breath. My brain called up the inside of Nat’s trailer, painted it in the splattered blood from the physics closet. “Jesus,” I whispered.
    We rode silently, Trip’s headlights swinging across the bramble as he turned onto Ohoyo Road. Everything looked gray in the early morning light, a sheen of silver dew coating the bushes and grass. I kept hoping we’d round the final bend to find the trailer quiet, all of it a case of mistaken address or identity.
    It wasn’t, of course. Every police car in Buford was there—all six of them—lights flashing, colors and shadows bouncing off the woods. I got out of the car slowly, eyeing the yellow tape already strung around the yard. A handful of gawkers had gathered—a fat lady in a housedress, an old guy, three men I recognized from the restaurant.
    Trip was already talking to the old guy when I reached them. William Johnson. He lived up the road a mile past Nat’s house.
    â€œ. . . heard the sirens an hour or so ago. After ’bout the third one, figured I better come see what was goin’ on.” William Johnson shook his head. “They already had the girl out by the time I got here. Saw her sitting in the back of a cruiser. She was still there when they brought out the body. I’da thought they’d take her away before that, but I guess seein’ the black bag prolly wasn’t any worse than seein’ what she did inside.”
    â€œDo they know what happened?” Trip asked.
    â€œIf they do, they didn’t tell William Johnson.”
    â€œWhere’s Natalie?” Sarah asked.
    Mr. Johnson looked her over. “I reckon they didn’t tell that to me neither, sweetheart,” he said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with them police types.”
    We turned toward the house, watching silently as shadows moved inside. John Peters’s dad had to be in there somewhere. Maybe he could tell us more. But it was Bob Willets and Lincoln Andrews who came out first and stopped to talk by the door. Then Lincoln went back inside and Bob headed down the yard, toward the police van parked just outside the tape. I moved to that part of the cordoned-off area.
    â€œHey, Bob,” I called. He was a regular at the restaurant, friendly with everyone there.
    He glanced up, his face grim. “Riley Larkin,” he said tiredly. Some guys probably were excited by the idea of “real” police work, but Bob wouldn’t be one of them. He had a little girl and a pretty wife and seemed content to shoot the shit with the townies and write the occasional parking ticket. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œNatalie Cleary’s a friend of mine,” I said. “Is she okay?”
    He pursed his lips. “She’s not hurt, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    He shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything, Riley,” he said. “You’ve seen enough cop shows to know that.”
    I nodded. “Can you at least tell me where Nat is? Or how to get ahold of her?” To our left, the tight knot of Trip, Sarah, and Tannis were all staring numbly at the house.
    Officer Willets followed my gaze. “They took her down to the station,” he said finally. “She’s going to be there for a while, I’d guess. And frankly, she’s not really in a state to chat, even with her friends. I’d go home and get some sleep.” He gave me a once-over. “You look like you could use it.”
    He