A Flicker in the Dark

by Stacy Willingham

It’s all pretty obvious, Chlo. Just don’t be stupid.” “Those girls weren’t stupid,” my mother snapped, her voice quiet but sharp. “They were unlucky. In the wrong place at the wrong time.”

But still, Coop is one of those guys who seems to get more attractive with age.

ew, that's literallly your brother

“A year,” I say. “We’ve been together for a year.” “You’ve known each other for a year.”

this is how you get murdered dude

I understand the way the brain can fundamentally fuck with every other aspect of your body; the way your emotions can distort things—emotions you didn’t even know you had. The way those emotions can make it impossible to see clearly, think clearly, do anything clearly. The way they can make you hurt from your head down to your fingertips, a dull, throbbing, constant pain that never goes away.

It’s the realization of how many hidden bodies could be buried beneath my feet at any point in time, the world above them completely oblivious to their existence.

And that’s why I remembered it so vividly when I saw it again, four months later, hidden in the back of my father’s closet.

“That other girl has a name,” he spat. “You should say it out loud. Tara King.”

because they both understand the inherent danger of existing as a woman.

It’s a necklace with a long silver chain, a single pearl on the end, and three small diamonds clustered at the top.

CALLED IT. edit: i was wrong, proceed.

how the hell that could have found its way into our closet unless someone put it there … and I know I didn’t put it there.

The necklace I found last night belongs to Aubrey Gravino. I have no doubt in my mind.

We found heavy traces of Diazepam in her hair. Daniel would have the drugs. Daniel would have the opportunity.

“And when you went to New Orleans, I thought that could be fun,” I say, glancing up at him. “An easy drive, not too expensive.” I see his lips twitch, an invisible flicker I never would have noticed had I not already known the truth—that he was never in New Orleans.

“My name is Dianne Briggs. And my daughter, Sophie, went missing twenty years ago.”

But that was a lie. All of it, a lie. He already knew about my father.

“Where did you get this?” I look down and notice my engagement ring, Daniel’s family heirloom, glistening on my finger. Panic rises in my chest as she lifts my hand higher, inspecting it more closely. “Where did you get this ring?” she asks again, her eyes now fastened on mine. “This is Sophie’s ring.” “Wh—what?” I stutter, trying to pull my hand back. But she’s holding it too tightly; she won’t let go. “I’m sorry, what do you mean, Sophie’s ring?”

“There are receipts from Baton Rouge, of course,” I say. “Restaurants in Jackson, hotels in Alexandria. All of these receipts paint a picture of where he goes all day—and the dates at the bottom can tell us when he was there.”