Still, I should have gone there.
Because, from the moment I walk in, I can tell that people recognize me.
No one in Los Angeles has ever recognized me. Pre-podcast, I was only famous to a tiny murder-obsessed corner of the internet. There are far more exciting people to see in Los Angeles. A guy from one of the cop shows shops at the grocery store near my house. No one is going to notice a maybe-murderer when the dude who has been looking mildly annoyed by his gorgeous partner for eight seasons is squeezing avocados in the produce section.
But there are no avocado-fondling actors in Plumpton. I am the biggest celebrity in town.
I push my cart past a large bin of toilet paper, trying to pretend that a woman with a helmet of gray hair isn’t openly gawking at me. I wonder whether I should know who she is. I’ve tried my very best to block out all my memories of the people in this town, except for Savvy. Savvy is the only memory I want, ironically.
Mom made a list—some general stuff they need like eggs and bread, plus a few things for the party. I push my cart through the aisles as fast as I can. Mom didn’t put buttermilk on the list, but I grab it anyway, hoping it will encourage Dad to make biscuits. And chocolate sheet cake. If I have to be here, I’m at least going to eat some of Dad’s food.
I pile the food into my cart, grab several bags of candy （sugar is my main weakness, unless you count my inability to stop murdering people in my head）， and make my way to the very long checkout lines.
“Lucy?” The baffled, familiar voice rings out loud enough for at least half the store to hear.
I try not to wince as I turn to find the source. Nina Garcia stands in the next checkout line over, her mouth literally hanging open.
“Wow. Hi.” She plants her hands on her hips, which are a bit wider than last time I saw her. She’s curvier all over, actually. She’s the sort of woman who looks nice in those dresses that cinch at the waist. I look terrible in those dresses. Like a stick wearing a sack.
“Hi, Nina.” I try to smile. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since before Savvy died. If I’d run into her two days ago, I might have still been bitter about that.
After listening to the podcast, I’m finding it harder to hold a grudge. And I’m usually so good at holding grudges. It’s one of my best talents.
“Well come here, girl, give me a hug!” She steps forward and wraps her arms around me before I can react. Her long, wavy dark hair smells like fake coconut.
I don’t know what to do with this friendliness from Nina. It could be a Texas thing, I guess. The fake-friendly “pretend everything is fine even though I hate your guts” thing that Texans do didn’t apply to me last time I was here. But maybe five years is too long to keep up that level of hostility. Texans are nothing if not polite （to your face）。
But on the podcast Nina actually didn’t sound like she hated my guts. She wasn’t passionately defending me, but she wasn’t throwing me under the bus either. There are plenty of high school stories she could have told that would have made me look terrible.
I don’t know what to do with that. I’d be much more comfortable if she’d shouted “I hope you get hit by a truck!” at me from across the store.
But hugging? Hugging is weird.
I pat her on the back and try not to look uncomfortable as she pulls away.
“I heard you were coming to town but I honestly didn’t believe it.” She points her finger up and then down my body. “You look great, by the way. How’s Los Angeles?”
“It’s … good. You know, sunny.”
“Oh, I bet. I visited there once. Did the whole tourist thing, saw the handprints and all that.” Her eyes flick to something behind me, and I turn to see two women staring at me. One glares when our eyes meet.
She’s standing next to a rack of scissors, and I imagine ripping the plastic off and jamming it into her throat.
“If you slice it like this there’s so much blood, let’s kill—”
Shit. The voice is back. Shit.
I’d hoped that by pretending it wasn’t happening, the voice would fade away again. It had been so quiet since I left Plumpton.
“Let’s kill—”
“How’s your mom doing?” Nina asks. “I heard it was a bad break.”
I turn away from the hostile ladies, and the voice quiets. “She’s good, I think. You know how she is.”
“I sure do.” She laughs. The woman in front of her moves forward, and Nina pushes her cart up and then turns back to me. “Are you just here for your grandma’s birthday or…？”