Page 16 of The Fall of Iris Henley
I know for a fact that she left the cheer sleepover that night.
For about the hundredth time today, I stare up at the ceiling fan’s slow rotation, sifting through memories from the night of the murder-suicide. There’s a sense of vertigo to every scene I can recall, a wild spinning abandon, images and sensations coming up through the chaos and vanishing almost right away. I was outside. It’d been raining; there was mud. I wheeled through the damp leaves, laughing. Hayden’s face swam into focus for a moment. Sophie, Molly, the other girls were there. I leapt from someone’s shoulders into the darkness, my heartbeat like the rhythm of one of the pop songs we danced to. My friends caught me in their arms. We were in my yard, doing tricks we normally would have to steel ourselves to try.
We felt invincible.
I remember realizing how good it felt, and realizing that I’d been sad for a long time. That I’d been feeling helpless, about Rocky, about my life, and suddenly, with that little orange pilland the vodka and whatever else I did that night, I felt like I could do anything.
But there was no way that could include murder.
Right?
I’ve never even held a gun. I’ve never gone hunting. I don’t even like squishing bugs. There’s no version of that night where I somehow found my keys, started my car, drove the ten and a half miles to Koenig Ranch without going straight into a ditch, got Rocky’s gun from his truck, confronted him and Lynette, and… what? Shot them both in cold blood? Or threatened them with the gun until it accidentally went off?
When the case was closed the sheriff’s department had released some of the details to the public. Lynette had been shot once in her chest. The bullet hit just to the right of her heart. Varda doesn’t have an actual medical examiner, but Sheriff Ramos said it looked like it was possible Rocky hadn’t really meant to shoot her, or maybe like he’d meant to shoot but had second thoughts halfway through pulling the trigger. It was clear they’d been drinking—Rocky’s blood alcohol limit was twice the legal amount—and so maybe he’d just been too drunk to aim.
But the small handful of Rocky apologists in Varda didn’t like that explanation. They pointed out the fact that Rocky was a crack shot. He’d been hunting with his dad and uncles every year since he was seven years old. Some of his friends pointed out that they’d seen him hit a bull’s-eye while dead drunk on multiple occasions. And they weren’t wrong. I’d seen it too.
Still. It’s not exactly a stretch to think his hands might have been shaking that night, that whatever it was that happened between them left him unable to aim.
Regardless, his aim was spot-on for the next shot—the one at his temple.
There’s no reason to even imagine the version Rockytruther2001, and now “puma208375890,” put out there. Noreason to picture myself standing in the doorway to the cabin, blind drunk, tears streaming down my face, holding his Smith & Wesson in my outstretched hands.
Bzzzt.
I pick up the phone, ready to see another angry message, another accusation. But it’s Jonah.
JONAH
I have the worst senioritis known to man. I am spending my Sunday reading words like “derivatives” and “integrals” and I don’t know why
My body unclenches a little. I look down at the phone, smiling a little, thinking. For a moment I wonder once again if I shouldn’t tell him what’s going on. But part of the point of these messages with Jonah—part of what makes them feel good—is that the conversation is light, innocent. He’s just a boy, a cute boy that thinks I’m cute. What a dumb, comforting relief.
So instead I type back:
ME
that’s what you get for taking calculus. Should’ve taken slacker classes like me. Choir, pottery, printmaking. Find an art teacher that looks extremely stoned all the time, easy A
JONAH
has anyone ever told you you should be a guidance counselor?
ME
thank you I like to be inspirational
JONAH
I don’t know why I’m working so hard. I applied early decision to UT so as long as I don’t actively kill anyone next semester it doesn’t matter, I can do whatever I want
I freeze, my hand curled around the edges of the phone.
So long as I don’t actively kill anyone.
He knows. He knows, and he’s fucking with me. That’s the only explanation. He’s baiting me and he’s going to put screenshots of our texts all over the internet. My body is braced for the blow.
Bzzzt.
