I open a private browsing tab on my laptop, find Emerald’s address through White Pages. It really isn’t difficult to find most people, especially if you know their full name and the city where they live. I type the address into Google Maps and click Enter. In street view, I use the arrows to spin myself around, getting my virtual bearings straight.
Emerald’s house is a sky-blue bungalow on Teal Avenue in Celebration. Her front lawn is impeccably groomed, like all of the others on the street, with blades of grass sheared so short it looks like soft green carpet. Emerald’s front porch is full of potted plants—hydrangeas and bromeliad and hibiscus and what looks like jasmine, although I can’t be sure.
I click myself down the street, past the parked Mercedeses and BMWs, their license plates blurred out for privacy. The only people in the street view are landscaping workers and pool maintenance staff, men in jeans and dark T-shirts who tend to the tasks the homeowners have outsourced. It’s a quiet-looking street. There shouldn’t be too many people around to notice us.
Then I check Letters from the Death House, and find a new entry has been uploaded, a letter from Andy written on yellow legal paper. He begins on the first blue line, his handwriting small and neat.
Dear Sis,
A search team tore up my cell this morning, hunting for contraband and excess property. They were nice enough about it so it didn’t bother me. And it only took me a few minutes to put everything back together. Having a cell that’s only 6 x 9 makes it pretty easy, I guess. After I fixed everything up, I looked out the window and realized we got a light frost last night. The crows pecking around out on the yard looked like they didn’t know what to do about it!
I’ve been keeping myself busy with reading and writing. I’m on the third Harry Potter book right now. I’ve liked them all so far, and I hope I can get my hands on all of the movies to watch once I’ve read the whole series. The books actually inspired me to start writing some fantasy stories of my own. I have one story that Kimmy might like, about unicorns and dragons. Maybe I’ll send it to you when it’s ready, and you can read it to her.
I might get one of the guys to make some artwork for it, too. There are quite a few guys in here who know how to draw. I’m sure my actual writing isn’t very good at all, but it’s nice to get lost in my imagination and make up stories. It gets my mind off things. It feels good to create. Turning a blank piece of paper into a story makes me feel like anything is possible.
Thanks for sticking with me all these years, sis. And thanks for putting my words online. It might sound silly, but it makes me feel less alone.
Love,
Andy
Maybe I should post a comment, telling him that he makes me feel less alone too. Maybe it would mean something to him just to know that I’m out here and reading his words.
My phone buzzes, and I look down. It’s a text from Clarisse.
Call me. It’s about the test.
Clarisse and I have agreed not to discuss the test over text or e-mail or instant messenger. Phone calls are okay as long as we don’t speak in specific terms, just in case.
“Do you remember Clue? The board game?” Clarisse asks me as soon as she answers. We are beyond hellos and good-byes.
“Sure. I always had to be Miss Scarlett because my favorite color was red.”
“There were six weapons in the game. Remember? You had to move the little pieces around to the different rooms. Candlestick, knife, lead pipe, revolver, rope, and wrench.”
“Yeah, and they were all made of metal except the rope, which was made of plastic.”
“Yeah, well, it just got me thinking, that’s all. I think there’s a better option. Something that doesn’t leave so many clues behind. I thought maybe you’d want to think about it too.”
“You’re a genius,” I say.
“I know, right?” I can tell she’s smiling. I hear it in her voice. “Good night, Ev.”
“Good night.”
The weapon is the last decision we need to make. My first suggestion was a knife, but the more Clarisse thought about it, the more squeamish she became. Too much blood, she decided. So I came up with the idea of bludgeoning Emerald to death. But with what?
This is where our collective imagination stalled. Many ordinary objects could be used to kill someone, but we want something tried and true. We didn’t want to conduct a Google search for “good objects for bludgeoning,” even in a private browser window, because computers can be seized and search histories scanned. Casey Anthony searched for fool-proof suffocation methods on the last day her daughter was seen alive, and although she was acquitted, the court of public opinion has rendered her eternally guilty.
I close my laptop and tiptoe out to the kitchen to find the toolkit my mother keeps in the cabinet under the sink. I unzip the red nylon bag, sorting through several screwdrivers of various sizes, a pair of pliers, and a roll of plumber’s tape until I finally see an adjustable wrench lying at the bottom. It has a red handle and jagged silver teeth. I reach for it, and the small light above the stove hits its body, making it shine. I feel the weight of it in my hand. It’s heavy and surely able to do harm if wielded with enough force.
I imagine Clarisse raising the wrench above her head, and my pulse quickens, my breath catching up to match. For a moment, a paralyzing fear washes over me, and I’m frozen, my feet planted firmly on the cool kitchen tile. My imagination halts because I know Clarisse will pass the test. She’ll lower the wrench, sobbing and running from the darkness of it all. And just like that, the fear releases me, and I can move again, for this is just a game and Clarisse and I are just tokens making our way around the board. I’m just Evelyn, in the kitchen, with the wrench.