MILA SANTOS: Hey, you dumbfucks. If you're looking for tragedy, for once, you've come to the wrong place. I'm Mila, my cameraman's Malachi, and we're into some macabre shit. Today, I'm gonna be telling all you sick bastards about the unsolved disappearance of a college freshman, Claire Baumgartner, who might have gotten a happy ending...

Mila's mom frowned and paused the video, looking at Mila and Malachi as they sat on her living room couch in their Halloween costumes. Naturally, Mila was Lizzie Borden. She'd made the costume herself—spent the last year hunting down a properly old-timey dress and heeled leather boots at various thrift stores. She'd splattered the costume with fake blood, gotten a plastic axe she'd coated in the stuff. Becca had given her a fancy up-do earlier that day. Malachi's costume was store-bought. He was a plague doctor, with a long black tunic, tall black hat, and a pointed white mask. They were both Like That, I don't know what else to tell you. Mila's mom hadn't dressed up, but Cruz had. He was a velociraptor princess. He'd picked out the velociraptor costume himself, then topped it with a sparkly pink tiara and tutu.

"Meelie said a no-no word!" Cruz sang, grabbing fistfuls of candy from the cauldron Mila and Malachi were going to use to pass out candy and shoving them in his own bag. "Meelie said a no-no word!"

"That's right. She did." Her mom nodded at Cruz and turned her attention to Mila. "Why do you swear so much in your videos? It makes you sound aggressive. It's off-putting."

"I am aggressive," Mila replied. "It's good they know."

Malachi sat there in his plague doctor costume and straight vibed out.

Mila's mom's frown deepened. She tapped her foot. "Why would there be a happy ending? She's still missing, isn't she?"

"You just need to watch and you'll find out!" Mila urged.

"NO!" Cruz yelled, grabbing hold of Mila's mom's hand and tugging on it. "It's already trick-or-treat!"

"But it's only ten minutes," Mila told Cruz.

"Ten minutes less of candy!" he argued.

Her mom rubbed her forehead and slid her phone in her pocket. "Just tell me what happens. Quick. So I can comment." Every video Mila and Malachi posted, she was first view, first like, first comment.

"Fine." Mila pouted. "So everyone thinks she faked her death to get away from an abusive relationship. Boom. Happy ending."

"An abusive relationship?" Her mom questioned. "Was it a boyfriend?"

Mila nodded. "Twenty years older than her."

"Honey, I've watched enough of your videos to know the boyfriend always did it. Especially if he was abusive and older. There's no way she—"

Cruz threw his whole body into pulling on his aunt's hand. "Come on! We're going to miss trick-or-treat!"

She sighed and let him drag her out the door. "Be safe, kiddos!" She called over her shoulder. "Don't party too hard!"

Mila rolled her eyes and sank into the couch. She and Malachi had plans of doing the exact opposite of partying: bingeing Halloween movies they'd already seen a thousand times before while passing out candy to the kids in her apartment complex. "So what movie do you wanna watch first? I'm thinking Hocus Pocus." She was always thinking Hocus Pocus. But her mind was elsewhere, on the video likely still queued up on her mom's phone, on what happened to Claire Baumgartner...

"Okay." Malachi slowly turned to face Mila, trying to pull some dramatics out of his ridiculous mask.

Mila tilted her head into her shoulder. "How can you stand having that mask on? It's driving me crazy just looking at it."

"What mask?" Malachi asked. "This is just my face."

***

MILA PULLED her hood up over her beanie and slunk into the classroom. Most of the desks had been pushed into a circle in the center of the room, with a few that didn't fit shoved against the walls. She grabbed an open spot in the circle, keeping her head down.

The room looked like a group therapy session. It was full of mostly college-aged girls with a couple guys and one androgynous person. Some of them seemed as nervous and unsure as Mila, keeping their heads down and twiddling their thumbs. Others commanded the room, demanded that they took up space, a force to be reckoned with. They warmly talked to the others, their laughter carrying down the hall.

One of them, a short Black girl with a soothing smile and a lilac hijab, clapped her hands together. Her smile didn't leave her lips the whole time she spoke. "Everyone, can I have your attention please? We run this like a group therapy sess"—see? I told you that's what it looked like!—"where everyone can talk about whatever they need to get off their chest. This is a safe space. Nothing leaves this room"—she mimed zipping her lips—"or I will tear you limb from limb, so help me God. This is about healing. Not gossip. So let's just go around the room and introduce ourselves! Say your name, your pronouns, and whatever else you think is important! Don't feel the need to say anything. You can just come here to sit. Just say 'pass' when it's your turn and we'll move on to the next person. I'll start! I'm Yasmin. I use she/her pronouns. I'm a law student and I'm the club president. And what about you?" She turned her attention to a random boy, looking at him intently.

The boy said his introductions, and then the next kid, and the next. Mila passed.

When they finished, Yasmin leaned back in her chair. "So nice to meet you all! Now, does anyone have anything they wanna share?"

The androgynous kid, who introduced themself as Dakota and a user of they/them pronouns, looked around. When no one else spoke, they frowned and shrugged to themself. They hesitantly raised their hand.

"Ah! It's on the tip of my tongue..." Yasmin scratched her head. "Dakota, was it? No need to raise your hand in here. Just speak your truth."

Dakota folded their hands over their lap and looked down at their shoes, hesitant to meet anyone in the eye. "I was raped a couple years ago by a very powerful man. I never told anyone. Recently, one of his other victims came forward. He's taking him to court. I want to share my story so I can back him up, but I don't—"

The axis inside of Mila that kept her standing upright tilted. She spun like a top, half-there and half-not. She looked at her hands as if she'd never seen such a thing before. She touched her face and was surprised to feel it was still there. Her heart pounded in her chest, shooting panic through her bloodstream. She could feel the walls closing in around her. Was it hot in here, or was she just sweating for no reason? She pushed her hood down and pulled her beanie off.

Waffle House, Arizona, twelve-years-old, blue eyes, blue eyes, blue...

She couldn't take this anymore. She had to get out of—

She abruptly stood up, catching Dakota in the middle of their story. She ran from the room.

***

MILA BOLTED down the hallway. She was too far inside her own head to notice or care about anything going on around her. Blue eyes, blue eyes, blue—

She slammed into the elevator doors so hard she knocked herself off her feet. She howled, kicking at the doors. "FUCK! FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCK—!"

Warm, soft hands closed around her arm, helping her to her feet. "Hey." It was Yasmin, still smiling softly. Mila wondered if she ever stopped smiling. "That elevator didn't do anything to you. Everything all right?"

Shakily, Mila stood up. "I'm fine."

Yasmin let go of her arm. "Do you want me to walk you home?" she asked. "Or call someone for you?"

Mila studied the gentle concern in Yasmin's face, the warmth of her eyes. She wanted to cry this girl was so sweet, but she felt nothing other than the frantic, angry panic that sent her running out the door.

"I'm fine," Mila insisted. "I just need to..." She rubbed her eyes and was surprised when her fists came away wet with tears. When did that happen?

"Just sit here with me for a while, okay?" Yasmin suggested. "You'll worry me to death going off like that."

Mila slunk down against the wall beside the elevator. She pulled her legs up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees.

Yasmin plopped down across from her, sitting cross-legged. She cupped her chin in her hand and smiled at Mila. "I'll keep you company. Okay?"

***

MILA'S FRIENDSHIP WITH JAIME was a business relationship. They'd grown up together, and when they'd both ended up at NYU, their friendship blossomed. Mila was a film major. Jaime was an actor. They needed each other like your friendly neighborhood mothman needed your unfriendly neighborhood florist.

Mila could hardly believe she was friends with one of them: a thespian. Fraternizing with the enemy.

Mila took the last swig of her hot cocoa. She set the mug down and wiped her mouth. Most of the "meetings" Jaime and Mila had started with a project one of them was working on, but quickly devolved into mischief. This was not one such "meeting." This was about something more serious: the science credit these two arts majors had to have. They were both taking the same biology class. They had their final tomorrow. Neither of them even knew what chapters they'd studied.

Jaime was thirty pages into a deep dive through the textbook. He slammed it shut and buried his head in his hands. "All that reading and all I could retain is that mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell."

Mila rolled her eyes. "We're so screwed."

"Nonsense! There's nothing a little caffeine won't fix!" Jaime spun his finger through the air. "Tell me—what's your poison?" He was such a theatre kid. It was unbelievable. How did Mila stand being seen in public with him?

She folded her arms over her chest. "As if you don't already know."

"But there's no caffeine in hot chocolate," Jaime protested. "In times like these, we need caffeine."

Mila sank low in her seat. "Just get me my hot chocolate."

"We need—!"

" —hot chocolate."

Jaime rolled his eyes, held his hands up in defeat, and jogged to the counter.

Mila pulled open her phone and Venmoed Jaime $5.55. She had the price of the hot cocoa memorized, of course. Tax and all. Ever since Adrian introduced her to this place, she never went anywhere else to get her cocoa fix. It really was the best hot cocoa in NYC—after her mom's, of course. She tossed her phone on the table in front of her. Her head swirled with homeostasis, alleles, and vacuoles. Jaime was right. Like him, all she knew was mitochondria was the powerhouse of the cell. She rubbed her forehead. They were in for a long night.

Feet pounded behind Mila. She turned to see Jaime bounding up to her. He walked funny—all bow-legged. Almost like Goofy. Mila sputtered into her hand at the realization, unable to control her laughter. Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity—

Damnit, Disney. Not another lawsuit.

As Jaime slunk behind her, his hand grazed her shoulder. Mila froze. The laughter died on her tongue. "I got our orders in." He plopped down in his seat across from her. "What's so funny?"

The touch was casual, platonic. There was nothing to it. No bigger implications. Just a little tap on the shoulder, a friendly movement to let her know he was coming up behind her. It shouldn't have meant anything. Jaime didn't mean any harm. He was about as dangerous as a butterfly.

But Mila only had on a tank-top. The flannel she'd been wearing had been abandoned and tied around her chair in the heat of the shop. Most of her shoulder was bare. And his hand was... his hand was big, his hand was rough, his hand was clammy. His hand was undeniably male. And Jaime looked white. His mom was a Colombian-American with skin as brown as Mila's, but his dad was white. Jaime was pale enough to pass as white during the cold months.

Mila's eyes widened. "Nothing."

Jaime smiled uncomfortably. "Is it a secret?"

Mila felt a million miles away. Her chest heaved. She couldn't get enough air into her lungs. She was frozen in place, unable to move. "No."

"You're acting weird," Jaime, which was short for Sherlock Holmes, observed. "You good?"

"Yeah," Mila mumbled. She shook her head, trying to shake herself out of it. "Fine."

"Are you sure? You know you can tell me—"

"DRINKS FOR HENRY!" a barista called.

Mila knew Jaime was used to people messing up his name. He heard something vaguely similar to it and knew it was for him. "Whoever this Henry guy is, he sounds pretty cool." He climbed out of his seat and made his way toward the counter.

Mila closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. But the darkness that came made her panic even more. She opened her eyes and whipped her head around, spotting Jaime's head bobbing toward the counter. He really did walk like Goofy.

She felt like what Britney must have felt in 2007. She didn't feel safe here, didn't feel safe in her own skin, in her own body. She needed to shave her head, needed to break something, needed to lose her mind. Needed to go into the woods somewhere and scream her head off.

Jaime reached the counter.

Mila made a split-second decision.

She shoved her laptop and textbook into her bag, pulling it over her shoulder. Without waiting to say goodbye to Jaime—needing to leave without him asking any questions, without having to talk to him again—she bundled up her flannel and bolted. She ran straight for the front door.

She took deep, gulping breaths of air when she hit the sidewalk. She turned in the general direction of her dorm and sprinted, needing to lose sight of the cafe before Jaime realized she was gone. Her hair flung loose from her scrunchie and whipped around her face. Her cheeks and her bare shoulders stung from the cold. She didn't have time to stop and put her flannel on. She needed to get somewhere she felt safe.

Was she ever going to truly feel safe?

Was she going to live the rest of her life in fear?

Her phone buzzed in her hand. Jaime.

Her feet pounded against the sidewalk. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. The cold air burned as she sucked it into her lungs. Her calves screamed. Her mind went to the bastard fucker who had done this to her, who had made her afraid of white men and intimacy and her friend touching her shoulder, who made her look twice before crossing the street and keep her keys between her fingers and never fucking trust anyone.

He was still out there somewhere. Freer than she was.

Maybe doing what he'd done to her to other girls.

Maybe waiting for her.

How did she know?

How did she know what guys weren't like him, who weren't going to hurt her?

How did she know who were and who would?

HOW WAS SHE SUPPOSED TO LIVE LIKE THIS?

Tears poured down Mila's cheeks. She clenched her hands into fists. She kept running.

She would never feel safe until the bastard fucker who did this to her was dead or behind bars.

And Mila wasn't stupid.

She knew she couldn't get a rapist prosecuted. Especially not when it was so long ago and she'd been so young. Especially not when he was so white and she was so brown.

That left her only one option—only one way out.

Vengeance.