But what they don’t understand, what they can’t understand, is that one day, they could wake up to find the violence crawling through their television screens, latching on to their houses, their lives, like a parasite sinking in its fangs. Wriggling in deep, making itself comfortable. Sucking the blood from their bodies and calling them home.
People never think it’ll happen to them.
The man glides past me and into his seat, pushing his bag beneath the chair in front of him. When I settle back in, I pick up where I left off: the gentle crack of the cap breaking, the glug of vodka as it pours into my drink. I stir it with my finger before taking a long sip.
“I saw your keynote.”
I can feel my seatmate looking at me. I try to ignore him, closing my eyes and leaning my head against the headrest. Waiting for the vodka to make my eyelids just heavy enough to stay closed for a bit.
“I’m so sorry,” he adds.
“Thank you,” I say, eyes still shut. Even though I can’t actually sleep, I can act like I’m sleeping.
“You’re good, though,” he continues. I can feel his breath on my cheek, smell the spearmint gum wedged between his molars. “At telling the story, I mean.”
“It’s not a story,” I say. “It’s my life.”
He’s quiet for a while, and I think that did it. I usually try not to make people uncomfortable—I try to be gracious, play the role of the grieving mother. Shaking hands and nodding my head, a grateful smile plastered across my face that I immediately wipe away like lipstick the second I step away. But right now I’m not at the conference. It’s over, I’m done. I’m going home. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
I hear the intercom come to life above us, a scratchy echo.
“Flight attendants, prepare doors for departure and cross-check.”
“I’m Waylon,” the man says, and I can feel his arm thrust in my direction. “Waylon Spencer. I have a podcast—”
I open my eyes and look in his direction. I should have known. The familiar voice. The fitted V-neck and dark-wash skinny jeans. He doesn’t look like the typical attendee, with his glossy hair shaved into a sloping gradient at the neck. He’s not into murder for entertainment; he’s in it for business.
I’m not sure which is worse.
“Waylon,” I repeat. I look down at his outstretched hand, his expectant face. Then I swivel my neck around and shut my eyes again. “I don’t want to come across as rude, Waylon, but I’m not interested.”
“It’s really gaining some traction,” he says, pressing on. “Number five in the app store.”
“Good for you.”
“We even solved a cold case.”
I can’t tell if it’s the sudden movement of the plane—a gentle lurch that makes my stomach flip, my limbs pushing deep into the seat as we rattle down the runway, this giant metal box we’re all locked inside moving faster and faster, making my eardrums swell—or if it’s his words that make me feel suddenly uneasy.
I take a deep breath, dig my nails into the armrest.
“Flying make you nervous?”
“Can you stop?” I spit, my head snapping back in his direction. I watch as his eyebrows raise, my sudden meanness taking him by surprise.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking embarrassed. “It’s just—I thought you might be interested. In telling the story. Your story. On the show.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying to soften my tone. We both tilt back as the plane begins to ascend, the floor rattling violently beneath our feet. “But I’ll pass.”
“Okay,” he says, digging into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. I watch as he flips open the faded leather, pulls a business card out, and places it gently on my leg. “If you change your mind.”
I close my eyes again, leaving his card untouched on my knee. We’re in the air now, ripping through clouds bloated with water, a beam of sunlight occasionally finding its way through the half-drawn shade and casting a ray of bright light across my eyes.
“I guess I just thought that’s why you do it,” he adds softly. I try to ignore him, but curiosity gets the best of me. I can’t.
“Do what?”
“You know, your talks. It can’t be easy, reliving it over and over again. But you have to if you want to keep the case alive. If you ever want it to be solved.”
I squeeze my eyes harder, focusing on the little spider veins I can see in my eyelids, glowing red.