So, Simon knows my secret. Er, one of them, I guess. He insisted that he stayed until I at least felt a bit better, so I gave him a little tour of my room, showing him my weird sea rock collection and CDs and cassette tapes. Turns out we have a few shared favorite artists! Prefab Sprout, New Order, Modern Talking… so he was pretty surprised to see that Stygian Stimulus is my favorite band, considering they don’t sound nearly as pop-ish as other artists I really like. I mean, I like some other rock bands; The Smiths are an easy go-to, and I was pretty excited to hear that Simon likes King Crimson. I was equally surprised to know that Simon likes heavier stuff. He just doesn’t really seem like the kind of guy; he seems softer in a way, but I guess I shouldn’t really assume too much about him.

He sang along a little to New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle” while he waited with me for my anxiety to ride out. It was a little low for Simon’s range, or at least, that’s his excuse for sounding so bad. I’m being overly harsh, of course. I think he might sound kind of okay if he had some training and was doing a track in a higher key, believe it or not. Besides, I can’t sing at all, either, anyway. He really does know a lot about music, and not just new stuff, either! I wasn’t expecting him to be such a big Supertramp fan. I don’t have anything by them, but I promised him that when I could, I’d give all of “Breakfast in America” a listen. As much as I wanted to, I did manage to avoid gushing about Stygian Stimulus. I told him I was supposed to see them in a week, but I probably won’t go at this rate. I offered the ticket, but he rejected it pretty quickly. He thinks they’re ‘in over their heads—’ whatever that means. Maybe I should have shown him “Other Half.” Maybe next time. Or maybe he already knows about “Other Half” and it wouldn’t have made a difference. It skips a lot anyway, like I said.

“Hey,” he says with the turn of his head to me, “do be careful during that visit, yes?”

I nod. “ ‘Course.”

“I do so wish I could go with you.”

“I know, Simon.

He lingers at the door. “Uhm…”

I tilt my head.

“...Bye, Ever.” He smiles, and before I can ask what’s wrong, he leaves. I want to call out, but I have a feeling that would cue a conversation he doesn’t have time for right now, then I’d feel bad for keeping him. I know I’ll see him later.

Well, I guess I can’t be too sure of much, anymore.

I spent a little too much time deciding whether I was gonna walk or take the bus. I realized at some point that I was severely overestimating my walking abilities, so now I’m on the bus. People sometimes ask if I miss being able to drive. Yes and no, I guess. Being able to go anywhere is awesome, but it’s obviously got its risks. I think about my dad’s injuries a lot. You can’t brace for it, it happens so fast. An accident does, I mean. People are pretty commonly using cars to die, whether they’re driving into or off of things, or throwing themselves in front of them. I’m sure I’ll drive again, but maybe after we find out what’s making people so… weird. 

If we ever find out.

I’m standing in front of the station now. I have no idea what to expect, and I think my hands are getting grossly damp. What are they even gonna ask me? Shouldn’t it be me asking questions about where she is? I walk up the stairs with my thoughts piling onto each other and I’m wondering when they’ll all topple over.

“I’m here for Carmilla Kazami,” my voice tilts up at the end as if I were asking a question. I’m just not sure if I got her name right. The officer at the front at least understands what I meant and nods.

“I’ll let her know. Go ahead and take a seat.”

I nod, taking a few steps back before I turn around to look at a chair, but right as I do, I hear a heavy door opening from behind me.

“Are you Ever?” A familiar pink tinge. Pink over the phone, but more like a magenta now. An intense hue. Such an unassuming color with such a somehow cutting tone… I turn back around and see her, and I can in fact say that her face is as stern as her voice. Well, maybe not stern, but… I guess it doesn’t matter. I can’t blame her for not being the most smiley person ever. Can’t imagine what she’s been seeing on a daily basis. I nod and follow her through the door.

Walking down the hall, I notice that her pulse is controlled, which makes sense, I guess. I can’t help but linger on the accent I heard when she spoke.

“Are you from… Australia?”

Kazami shakes her head. “New Zealand.”

Where’s that? I wanna ask, but I don’t want to seem ignorant around her right now. I think it’s close to Australia. I’m just nervous. “So, do you guys know where my sister is?” Ugh, I can’t help myself. I’m scared.

“We’ll talk about that,” she said over her shoulder.

I don't like that, much.

She unlocks a door, letting me go on in ahead of her before she walks in and closes it behind her. I’m sure my heart’s racing. I think of that room in the library. He let me in first, then closed the door behind him. Feeling prickles, I quickly turn around to see what she’s doing, but she just walks behind her desk and sits, gesturing to something behind me.

“Have a seat, please.”

I look behind me and see a chair, then take it and scoot a little closer to her desk.

“Do you have a form of identification on you, Ever?”

Crap. Sure, I pull out my wallet, take out my driver’s license and hand it to her. She looks at it for a moment.

“...You said you were her brother?”

I nod.

“And you go by ‘Ever.’ ”

Again, I nod.

“...I see.” Ugh… “Have you gone by any other names?”

“No.”

She nods, then pulls a small black box out of her desk- I guess it’s a tape recorder- and hits a button before setting it down on her desk.

“This is case BCB-081287.” She almost sounds robotic reciting the letters and numbers. Like a prerecorded machine. “The time is 5:31 P.M. on the 12th of August, 1987. I’m speaking with-” My body tenses, but then I hear something in her heart as she reads the name from my license. The way it sounded felt like an apology. Heavy and embarrassed; ashamed somehow. She only read my name out because she had to. Turns out she has a heart after all, I guess- metaphorically, I mean. It somehow makes the sting of hearing my ‘real’ name less intense. Not by much, but I guess it was a formality. I’m a little stuck on how I was able to decode a feeling in a pulse, though… “...also known as Ever.” The detective slides my license back to me, and I pocket it. She picks up the pen sitting on her desk and prepares to write in the notebook in front of her. “When did you first notice your sister was missing, Ever?”

I explain that I went to look for Rhea when I first realized she was missing before calling the last place I knew she was. Kazami nods along, jotting down notes of where I went and occasionally meeting my eyes. Her pulse is steady, focused, and then I’m done with recounting the morning.

“So it was unusual that she left at that time?” she asks, waiting for clarification.

I nod. “Yes. She usually works during the day.”

“How did it come to be that she worked at night this time?”

“There was a band she really wanted to work with that needed the studio’s services, so she was super excited and made an exception to her schedule to work with them.” I zero in again on the detective’s heartbeat. It’s gone back to a stern tempo.

“I understand that this is the second time a recording artist has died just before recording at Dual Shriek Studios.” Crap, the Love Omission story. “Was Rhea on board for Love Omission as well as The Starry Lines?”

I slowly nod, not sure of what she’s getting at.

“I see.”

Detective Kazami asks me some other questions: if anyone else lives with us (no), if anyone else has ever lived with us (yes, but both our parents are dead. ‘How?’ she asks, and I explain our mother’s stroke seven years ago and the car accident last year), what time Rhea left exactly (I believe she said she’d be at the studio at 10 P.M.), and how often Rhea spent time outside ever since the epidemic started (not much; she’s been scared). Her pulse is suddenly uncertain and self-doubting. It was headstrong and moved along, but it hesitates now. It still shares the color of her voice, but the sound is dampened and unsaturated.

“Do you know your sister to be a peaceful individual?”

What? “...What?”

“Ever, I do worry,” she admits. My chest tightens as a result. She pauses to think. “Rhea was not found among the bodies we saw at the studio.” I remember her mentioning that when I first called, and I nod. Her heartbeat is stone sober again. “Do you realize she’s been wanted since last night?”

No. No, no, no. What? Why? Someone spotted her? Where? Doing what? I can only stare back.

“Here.” Carmilla opens a drawer on the left side of her desk and pulls a piece of paper out. It’s a flyer. Oh, my god, no. This isn’t right. It can’t be. This is not right!

I find myself shaking my head involuntarily. The buzzing in my skull is intense enough for me to hear a terrible, bright rattling. The face on the poster is my sister’s, the name is my sister’s, everything on here describes my sister. I keep going from bottom to top and left to right over and over again until the name and descriptors are only clusters of meaningless letters, and the face isn’t one I can recognize anymore, so it maybe isn’t hers anymore, the name nor the face nor the descriptors. It feels like a sphere of nothing is rising in my throat and it threatens to leave but it can't. It rises in place, and I’m afraid to take another breath.

“I truly want to give her the benefit of the doubt because I also want to trust your account, Ever, but—”

“She would never hurt someone like that!” The sphere explodes into a shout. I don’t like yelling at all, and I’m shaking now.

Kazami quickly moves on. “I understand, but the fact that she was the only one that left the building around that time, and that the others that were there were found dead was troubling. If your account is true and the timing of her disappearance is accurate, then I only see two possibilities. Rhea is either one the first ever survivors of a suicide cluster- therefore seeing what could have happened- or she had to be the one perpetrating that specific event.”

I can’t say anything. There aren’t any words in my mouth, they’re all stuck circling each other in my head. Rhea… Rhea could never hurt someone. That’s not who she is. I’m not freaking out because I doubt Rhea at all. I just don’t want this cop to be after my sister. So she’s alive? I should be happy, but what if she’s only ‘alive?’ Breathing, walking around, but like I feared earlier, sick? One other question rings louder than the rest in my head.

“Who reported her?”

“I cannot give that information out.”

Fuck, of course not. “My… My sister would never hurt anybody,” I repeat. “Not ever.”

“Even if she didn’t hurt anyone, it is important that we speak to her. Like I said, she may be the third survivor of a concentrated group of suicides.”

That’s right; no one has ever seen a group die together. Groups of dead bodies are always found after they’ve died. But… “The third…?” The thought escapes my lips.

“Yes. There’s another reason I’ve needed to bring you in, actually.” The detective stands up, her hand moving to her waist. “Now, don’t move.” Oh, my god. Her heart hosts conviction. This isn’t just an interview; it’s an interrogation. “Ever, is there a reason you and Simon Rhoades were the only ones alive at Echo Park yesterday?”