The date of death carved into the limestone sent a chill down her spine and it didn’t take her long to put the pieces together. She’d reviewed the Polaroids so many times their inscriptions were committed to memory.
Bella died three days after she slept with Dayton.
Questions thundered through her head but one demanded attention above the rest.
Were any of the other girls dead?
The sky grew darker overhead. Her pulse echoed in her ears and she lost all interest in showing up to perform at Striker. Kenna wanted to lock herself in her room, draw the curtains, and comb the internet for crumbs of information until she couldn’t see straight.
The woman rubbed her eyes and shaky laughter escaped her lips. “Sorry about that. I’m Taylor, by the way.”
“Kenna.”
“So, you said you and Bella had a mutual friend?”
“Dr. Merino. Do you know him?”
“Only what she told me, but she always called him—”
“Dayton.”
“Yeah. She thought he was like the Mick Jagger of psychiatry or something. Really admired the guy. And she definitely had a thing for him.”
Taylor hadn’t known Bella and Dayton were involved. They must not have been incredibly close roommates.
“I’d like to ask you something,” Kenna said, toes curling in her boots. “I don’t mean to upset you, but I’d like an honest answer. Do you think Bella jumped off the roof? I mean, purely of her own desire.”
“Her parents don’t believe it. They’re not very rah rah about mental illness, though. Anyone who really knew her knew that she was suffering, that even on the days when she was smiling and functioning, there was something broken in her that none of us could fix. Not even that rock star doctor.”
* * *
Though the conversation with Taylor had her second-guessing, Kenna decided to play the gig. She needed the distraction, and playing at Striker Lounge would keep her away from her apartment for a few hours. Whenever she did arrive home, she’d resolved to not look at her laptop.
She wouldn’t spiral out of control like last time.
She had stayed at the vigil much later than she’d intended and, as a result, she was expected to go on within minutes of her arrival at the bar. Kenna was grateful for the rush as she ensured her guitar was tuned. Otherwise, her mind would’ve ventured down dark avenues.
Holding up an arm to shield herself from the spotlight, she stepped onto the wooden shipping pallet that served as the stage. Her arm dropped limp at her side once she was behind the microphone. The light shone relentlessly and a sea of expectant eyes were on her. Wooziness overtook her. She gripped the mic, steeling herself against a bout of sickness that never came but the possibility remained. It stayed close. A halo of nausea crowning her head.
“My name is Kenna O’Callaghan. How are we feeling tonight?”
The introduction felt pointless. She’d performed at the lounge nearly every week during her second mentorship. It had been an excellent way to blow off steam and rake in supplemental cash. Striker operated out of a renovated matchstick warehouse. It was a welcome change from the poorly lit, cramped digs at The Rusted Monkey, which was the only other venue she had played in the city.
She got into position to play her first song, lips already parted in anticipation, but movement near the bathroom stole her attention. The sight she was met with chilled her from head to toe.
Bella McAnders, dirt staining her skin, donned in moth-eaten clothes. A pair of flies circled her head. One of them landed on her lower lashline and crawled into an empty eye-socket. A horrifying, slow smile stretched wide across her decimated face and Kenna looked elsewhere before doubling back on the spot where the dead girl stood.
Except when she looked back, there was no girl, just a tall, dark-haired man who ducked around the corner.
Seeing the ghostly apparition of Bella shook her to her core. She’d been prepared to break into something by Fleetwood Mac but instead chose a song that would allow her to process her heightened emotions; a stripped down version of Radiohead’s ‘Creep.’
The entire time she sang, she wondered if Dayton was there, in the bathroom, listening to her voice reverberating off the tile. It wasn’t that she wanted him there. She felt him.
For disquietude followed him wherever he went.
Her head cleared after she played a couple of songs but as she strummed the opening chords of a third, she spotted a familiar sight at the bar and her anxiety unfurled its creeping tendrils once more.
Kenna’s fingers were steady on the fretboard and the melody poured in a steady stream from her mouth as she spied the man. His back was facing her but he was the right size, the right build. The same shaggy, unkempt black hair. But she finished the song and he turned in his seat, clapping along with everyone else.