I didn't think I would ever muster up the strength it took to turn Lattie and myself away. But I did, and once I did I couldn't stop. I drug us back down the road, Lattie clinging to my side the entire way.

I didn't take us back into the house; Nanni would never let me hear the end of it if she knew what we saw, and I wasn't about to let Lattie get scolded, either. Nanni would blow a gasket, and then a breaker, and then she would undoubtedly find something to hurl at our heads in substitution of her (thankfully) missing disciplinary wooden spoon.

"I'm sorry, Lattie," I tell her as I smooth her hair where it had been rubbing against my shoulder. "I didn't think... I thought they would have had it all cleaned up by now."

I know nothing about police homicidal protocol or procedure. I should have learned before going: just a simple internet search. Above all, I shouldn't have led Lattie there, my ignorance as our guide.

But it's done now, and now I have to scramble to re-piece the damage of my mistake.

After leaving the crime scene, Lattie and I took refuge on the back porch's white spiral bench, the ivy covered lattice shading us from the slowly sinking sun. My arm is around her and her head is laying on my shoulder. Her face is shimmery with tear stains, puffy, like a child's.

She's seventeen: born only two years after I was. Two years, yet she seems so young.

Maybe her soul is a new one, still fresh and vibrant and scared. Maybe the loss of her parents in toddlerhood resulted in her never learning how to grow up. Maybe it's the warm, loving, sheltered life Nanni has given her that keeps her a child, or my role as a big sister who she's become accustomed to hiding behind.

Whatever the cause responsible for molding Lattie, I can't be mad at it. I can't think any less of her or tell her she's being childish and to grow up. I love her how she is, and I hate myself for doing this to her.

And so the only thing I can do now is pat her head and squeeze her shoulders and tell her that I'm sorry I led us there; that I'll make it up to her by buying her next ten coffees and covering her next ten shifts at the café.

She just laughs and shakes her head. "It's okay," she says, though she sounds no less sad. "I guess it just seems real now."

Lattie and Sophie went to school together. Every Friday when Sophie would come to the café, Lattie would spend her break sitting at her table listening to all the juicy stories about Sophie's past and present boyfriends. If there were ever a school project to be done, the two worked on it together. Whenever one found out about a sale at their favorite stores, they would invite the other.

I guess in a way, Sophie had been close to being Lattie's best friend. And would have been, if Lattie hadn't vowed herself to the café first.

"We were going to go birthday shopping for her mom," Lattie says, her voice breaking on mom. "Now she's... she's in a trash bag."

The flood of her tears breaks again, the warm liquid darkening my jacket. I hug her and run my hand up and down her bicep in soothing strokes, because what else is there to do? Her friend is already dead and I've already traumatized her by showing her her body. A tight ball has formed in my stomach, rolling and pushing on my organs. I quickly name it Regret.

There's nothing I can say to Lattie. The emotional management of others is... an area I would deftly omit from my resumé. So I offer her all I can: my presence. A firm body to lean against and arms to wrap around her.

Just as I begin to rock her, hoping the motion might calm her, the back door clicks open and Nanni steps out onto the porch. I cringe before turning to face the inevitable wrath of Esmerelda McNamara, but Lattie doesn't raise her head from my collarbone.

Nanni may be a feisty, stringent, disciplining grandmother, but she's a grandmother nonetheless. And that sixth grandmotherly sense overrules all others. Her countenance softens in an instance as her hand covers her mouth.

Just as she sees Lattie is hurting, she must see me struggling to console her as well.

She shuffles quietly to us. "Leila, why don't you go make sure we have enough cocoa powder?" Nanni asks, though she isn't really asking. "It's on the top shelf; I can't reach it."

She takes Lattie's hand and gently squeezes in front of me to take my spot as I slip past her and up. I'm unsure if Lattie even notices.

"Oh, and Leila," Nanni adds while holding her granddaughter. "You're staying the night."

The statement is not up for debate, and I don't bother trying. I allow the defeat to settle over me as I enter the house, leaving the two alone. Leaving Nanni to soothe my mistake.

~

There was a full can of cocoa in the cupboard. I knew there would be, but on the off chance that Nanni's ruse had held some truth, I wasn't risking explaining to her later about why I didn't do as she'd asked.

Night is falling. The sun has already slipped down behind the trees, the only light left in the sky being a faint one.

I need to go home. The only clothes I have here are the ones I'm wearing and the ones I'd worn to work yesterday, which smell overwhelmingly like bitter coffee beans and fermented sugar. Lattie's clothes are all too small for me, and Nanni's—well I would rather sleep naked than have any of those silky, floral-patterned nightdresses come near me.

So, while the McNamaras are holding each other on the back porch, I sneak out the front and into my Hummer. I cringe at the idea of approaching that bridge again, but remind myself that it's been over three hours since Lattie and I saw what we saw and that surely the bridge is passable by now.

If it isn't, I'll drive the hour long detour. I've already decided: Fresh underwear is worth the cost of the gas it would take.

As I approach the place where uniformed personnel had been swarming earlier today, yellow headlights illuminating the way, I find the road vacant. There are no police barricades or yellow tape or flashing lights. I pass without incident, though a last minute pang kicks me in the gut as I cross the bridge, remembering Sophie's bloodied, bloated face being pulled out from under it. It feels like I'm driving over her, in a way. Like my tires are rolling over her already bruised and decaying body.

I swiftly push the visual away and focus on driving.

I pass through the village smoothly, and within five minutes of driving down the forested road, my house appears in the dark. As I near it, I notice nothing unusual. It's only after I make the move to turn into the driveway, and have already initiated the motion, that I see the figure standing in the middle of it.

My foot slams on the brakes, stopping my vehicle crossways in the road, one tire in the driveway. My headlights blind the person—a male, it appears. He raises his forearm to cover his face, shielding himself from the high beams. The arm he uses is tan, though that's the only quality I can pick up about him.

My hand strangles the gear shifter. I'm frozen in my seat, a frost of panic falling over me and condensing my thoughts. Dozens of possible reactions—and hazards—run through my mind in an instant.

Jump out and confront him to protect my belongings? If he's aggressive and armed, I'll be harmed or killed. If unarmed, we'll get in a fight. My vehicle could be hijacked.

Stay in the vehicle and drive forward? I'll gain a new hood ornament, and a prison sentence.

Drive away and let him have the house? He could break in, if he hasn't already, peruse my things and take what he wants, be they material possessions or personal information. But I would be free and alive at least.

I choose the third option... with an added impulse. The heel of my palm slams into the middle of the steering wheel, laying on the constant, deafening bleat of the horn. The person in the drive startles so badly that he loses his footing and crashes down to splay across the gravels.

My shifter is thrown into reverse and the tires squeal as I whirl the car around. The perpetrator, having bounced back, flees into the woods. As he's disappearing into the dark, my foot hovers over the accelerator, the adrenaline causing my leg to shake.

I sit, the Hummer braked in the middle of the road, watching out the passenger side window with a bubble of air held in my chest. I expect to see people flood out of my house and run, or to see the guy who had already ran come back vengeful and armed.

But nothing happens. I punch off the radio, its noise jarring my thoughts.

The engine hums patiently, waiting on me to make my decision.

"Shit," I curse, my eyes giving a cursory search over the console and the backseats. There's nothing capable of hurting anyone in here. The most hazardous thing I have is the plastic cap on the empty water bottle in the cupholder, which would only help me if I shoved it in his mouth and he, by a stroke of ridiculous luck, possessed the uncannily overwhelming desire of a two-year-old to swallow it.

Unless he might... I consider the odds before cutting off the thought. Damn it, be realistic!

I sit in the road for a few moments longer, watching and waiting. The person I'd seen doesn't come back and no one else appears. He could be waiting on me to leave so he can continue his robbery, or he could be waiting on me to exit my vehicle so he can have a chance at doing something else illegal. Or he could be long gone, and this could be my chance to salvage what I can while I can before more things are taken.

I pull fully into the driveway and kill the engine. This could very well be the wrong decision. I acknowledge that, and yet I can't force myself to leave. I can't make myself leave my territory now that it's been invaded, no matter how much reasoning I use.

I open my door and step a foot out onto the gravels. The chilled night air rushes into the cab of the Hummer, breezing through my hair and settling over the bridge of my nose. The scent I inhale does not belong to a human.

🍂 A/N: I hope the story has been enjoyable so far! Feel free to share any theories in the comments, I'd love to hear them! 🍂