Only If You’re Lucky
: Chapter 1

We’re seated next to each other, shoulders touching, side by side like a prison lineup.

I can feel Nicole’s hip bone jutting into my side; Sloane can’t stop picking at her cuticles, sprinkling dead skin across the floor like salt. We’re in our pajamas, cheeks still smeared with last night’s mascara, and Nicole looks about five years younger with her baby-faced skin and braided pigtails, barely a teenager. Sloane’s dark hair is knotted up in a scrunchie, a single curl jutting out like a corkscrew, and I don’t even know what I’m wearing. Some T-shirt I probably picked up off someone else’s floor and claimed as my own, armpit stains and everything.

“Girls.”

I look up at the detective in front of us, hands on his hips. I don’t like the way he says that—Girls—like we’re children being scolded. Some words should be ours to own, at-times-vicious yet tender terms of endearment we toss around like glitter that suddenly taste sour in the mouths of men.

Girls is one of them.

“When was the last time you saw your roommate, Lucy Sharpe?”

I glance to my left, my right. Nicole is staring at the table; Sloane’s staring at her nails. We’re all thinking about that night, I’m sure. Just last week but also a lifetime ago. We’re all thinking about sitting on the floor, the knife spinning in circles between us, metal tip catching the lamplight and casting shapes across the wall. Lucy’s wild eyes as she reached out and grabbed it and that Cheshire cat grin curling up into her cheeks, baring her fangs. The way she raised the blade higher and the glimpse I had caught of myself in the metal.

I remember thinking that I looked different in that moment. Distorted. Rabid and wild and alive.

“Someone’s gonna have to say something eventually.”

I look at the detective again, forehead like an old tire, cracked and slick. His face looks red and swollen like someone is squeezing him from the bottom, waiting for him to pop. I take in his hands next, finger skin bulging around his wedding ring like a sausage link. They’re still on his hips with his legs spread wide like he’s trying to copy some old Western gunslinger or a stance he saw on an episode of Cops.

“It’s been three days, I think.”

He looks at me, the first to speak up. “You think?”

I nod. “Yeah. I think.”

Sloane and Nicole keep staring at the floor, their silence loud enough to fill the room, curling and twisting and seeping into the corners like the lingering smoke I can still smell in my hair.

“Nobody is getting into trouble, girls, but she hasn’t been accounted for since Friday. She didn’t show up to work all weekend. Have you talked to anyone in her classes?”

“Lucy doesn’t go to class,” Sloane says, and Nicole grunts, stifling a laugh.

“So you aren’t at all concerned?” he asks, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “Your roommate is missing and you aren’t worried about where she might be?”

“Detective”—Sloane stops, making a point to stare at the nameplate pinned to his chest—“Frank, if you knew Lucy at all, you’d know this isn’t unusual.”

“Meaning?” he asks.

“Meaning,” she sighs, “she probably decided to go out of town with some guy for the weekend, I don’t know. If you find her, tell her the rent’s due and we’re not covering for her again.”

I shoot Sloane a look, hypnotized at the chill in her tone: menthol cool and sharp as an ice pick, almost like he’s boring her.

Detective Frank shifts again, switching gears, and I think I see him flush a bit more, heat rising into those chipmunk cheeks like he’s embarrassed or flustered or a little bit of both.

“So, three days ago,” he says to me next. “Where were you?”

“We stayed in that night, just hung out in the living room.”

“All of you?”

We nod.

“What were you doing?”

“Girl things.” I smile.

“How was Lucy acting?” he asks, not taking the bait. “Any different?”

“No,” I lie, the first of many. I remember the depth of her pupils, oversized like two black holes, swallowing everything. The way she kept sucking on that Tootsie Pop, an orb of red, until it looked like her teeth were bleeding. “Just Lucy.”

We’re all quiet and I’m starting to feel squirmy in my seat. My eyes dart to the clock—it’s almost eleven—and I think about opening my mouth, making up another lie about running late to class, when Detective Frank takes a step forward and rests his hands against the table, leveling his eyes with ours.

I hear the wood creak, straining under his weight. Almost like he’s hurting it.

“Did Lucy tell you girls we brought her in for questioning?”

Nicole perks up, finally. “Questioning for what?” she asks, even though, of course, we know. We know so much more than this man thinks we do and I see his lips twitch at this little victory—at thinking he’s finally said something important enough to make us care—as he drums his fingers against the table, preparing his quick draw.

“For the murder of Levi Butler.”

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