“In the case of State of Tennessee vs. Davis, we the jury in the aforementioned case find the defendant, Lisa Davis, guilty of murder in the second degree.”

There were gasps from the audience. I turned and saw my mother, weeping softly into a white linen handkerchief. On the other side of the aisle, Buck Davis, my father-in-law, was smiling broadly. He gave me one of those looks and spoke, loudly.

“You bitch, you shot my son. Now the world knows he didn’t kill himself. I hope you rot.”

He turned and swept out of the courtroom. The heat rose in my chest and I was blinded for a moment, furious. This was bizarre. I searched the crowd. Where was Troy? My golden haired boy man, the one who’d swept me off my feet, loved me true. It’s only a dream, silly, I chided myself. You’ll wake up and Troy will be lying next to you, warm and solid. You’ll make blueberry pancakes and read the paper. You’ll tell him about your dream and he’ll laugh, shaking his head like he does when he finds your excitement intoxicating. Like he used to.

I turned back to my lawyer, who was making murmuring noises in my ear. Something about minimum security, a psychiatric hospital. Promises to come see me soon. Then I was handed over to the bailiff, cuffed and walked from the room.

The panic began in a slow well. The handcuffs were tight, biting into my flesh. I started to thrash, trying to force the dream away, but the bailiff pulled my right arm down hard enough that the shoulder joint popped and I hissed in pain.

“Knock it off, girlie. We’re going for a ride.”

Before I could protest, he pushed me through the doors of the courthouse. A distant roar started in my ears.

“They’re taking her out the back!” People were scurrying about, flashbulbs started going off. A white van pulled to the curb, and the bailiff pushed me inside. I smacked my forehead on the door frame, felt the bruised lump start swelling. The guard just leered.

***

It felt like we arrived within minutes. The lawns were green and long; the building at the end of the drive looked more like a Victorian mansion than a sanitarium. At least my dream weaver has good architectural taste. The van jogged to a stop and the guard grabbed my forearm again.

“Put those panties back on, girlie,” he grumbled in my ear. “They’ll catalog your clothes and we can’t have any missing.”

I’d try the trick that’s worked so many times before. “Sure, whatever. Can I use the bathroom now?”

“Once you’re inside. Thanks for the lay.”

“Not a problem.” We exited the van, the sunlight stinging my eyes. A shadow moved across my frame. I squinted…

“TROY!” I launched myself into his arms. “I can’t wake up. Will you help me?”

“Sure, babe.” The dark, gaping hole smack in the center of his face moved again, shreds of blood and tissue fell to the ground. “You’re going to like it here. I’m sorry I can’t stay. I have to get back to the graveyard. I miss you, sugar. But everything will be all right now.”

“Don’t go.” I snuggled in close. “Troy, they tried me for murder.”

“I know. It’s perfect, isn’t it? I needed some way to keep you safe, darling. This way, you’ll always be taken care of. I love you.”

And with that, he was gone. I looked at my new home and smiled. Troy would never let me be alone.

DRIVE IT LIKE IT’S STOLEN

Flashing in the Gutters 2006

“Are you done with the mascara yet?”

“God Jules, yes already. Quit grabbing for it.” Tara handed the green tube to her best friend.

“Thank you. It’s just that we don’t have all day, you know?”

“Shhh, Jules.” Tara glanced over her shoulder. The bathroom door opened and the rush began. A line formed behind them, innocuous women and children, just searching for a little relief on the side of the road. Tara caught one woman staring at her and narrowed her eyes. The woman looked away, intimidated or uninterested. Tara chose intimidated, happier with the idea.

The truck stop was as anonymous as they came. Side of a highway, somewhere in Godforsaken Timbuktu Tennessee, a McDonald’s attached to the side. The smell of the fries made their mouth water when they rushed through the door, trying to get to the bathroom unnoticed. They’d succeeded.

Tara turned back to the mirror and watched Jules swipe the little wand across her transparent lashes, wishing for permanence. Maybe she’d help her dye them one day, when they had a little more money. Things might be tight for a while. Tara told Jules over and over again that it was going to be okay, and Jules believed her. It was the way things were with them.

Time to go. Tara pulled a brush through her hair and handed it to Jules, who scooped her long blond curls into a fist and wadded them through a tiny black rubber band. She looked older with her hair up, everyone told her that. Taking the idea to heart, she prepared complex swirls and twists and bought tortoise shell hairclips to fancy it up. They’d left those things at home.

Women were shuffling toward them now, trying to get to the sinks, to wash up and head on. Tara glanced around as they shoved their accoutrements back into a plastic tote bag Jules had purchased at the Dollar Tree. Hairdryer, makeup bag, brushes, clothes. A woman with nappy hair and thick rimless glasses cleared her throat, impatient.

Grabbing the bag, Tara pulled Jules away from the sinks, toward the half-open door. The line was growing. She felt Jules tense under her hand, looked back through the door. The old woman was peering into the trash receptacle to the left of the sinks. Reaching a hand in…

Tara put her hand in the middle of her friends back, pushing her out through the McDonald’s entrance. “They’re looking. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Quit pushing me,” Jules hissed.

“Hurry the hell up, then. That woman saw.”

The two girls broke out the door and hustled to a mid-nineties Toyota Camry, silver, with a dented hood. Tara reached through the open window, picked up a canvas bag, and sauntered three cars down. A slate gray Porsche Boxster, ragtop down, gleamed in the sun. Tara flicked the visor down, caught the keys. Throwing her second smile of the day at Jules, she nodded to the car.

“Get in.” Tara took the driver’s side, Jules the passenger. They strapped in, Tara shoved the car into gear and they spun out of the parking lot. They were gone, north on the interstate ramp, before anyone registered the blood.

***

Detective Frank Barbary chewed on a toothpick, contemplating. The crime scene folks were milling around, done photographing and taking samples, waiting for the call to close the scene. The body was zipped into a plastic Cobb County Medical Examiner’s pouch, the protruding knife pitching an obscene tent. The widow was crying plaintively in the living room.

Barbary was comfortable with what had gone down, felt he had a handle on the day’s events. Spike Hamilton shouldn’tve been boning his daughter in the first place. He didn’t blame that girl a bit for offing him. Doubted a court would either. They just needed to find her. A BOLO was in place for Hamilton’s Camry. Find the car, they’d find the girl. He might just shake her hand when they found her.

Word was she’d taken off with her best friend. Barbary shifted the toothpick to the opposite check. How far could two thirteen year olds get, anyway?