19. 2022

EMMA

"Ilistened to his tale with a heavy heart and balled fists. It was impossible not to be impacted by the hatred he had for himself, because I felt the same. How could we be so fucking stupid?" Bunny asks, as time glazes over her eyes. "How could we put ourselves in those situations?" It's a question she's asked a few times during this interview, and like all the others, I don't know how to respond. But that pain she's talking about? I feel it. It's hard not to with the way it consumes the small space.

That pain tripled when she started talking about Cade.

Every pause she took, I utilized that moment to run through everything I read about Cade Harris. Some of it was public knowledge: a southern boy from Texas who left home at eighteen to commit heinous crimes. None of those articles ever included the pain he suffered at home or the dreams he often spoke of. I think I read one interview with his uncle, a man named Dalton Harris, but all he could say was that Cade ended up where he deserved.

Did he mean gone?

Or did he mean dead?

Bunny paints a different picture of the boy the world thought they knew, and as much as I fight to stay objective—unbiased—I can't help but see him differently, too.

The more the story unfolds, the less I see the monsters that graced the covers of the New York Times. The longer I sit here, gazing into the eyes of a killer, the more I see a child who went through hell.

I want more.

I need to know more, but as if to torture me, alarms start blaring overhead. Cyrus shoots onto his feet in an instant, finger to his lips, ears to his radio to listen to the voices on the other side.

"Inmate 081482 not seen in cell. I need—"Cyrus shuts off the radio then, silencing their staticky tones before racing to Bunny's side. "We need to get you back."

She's unfazed as he works to undo her restraints, attention back on me. "It's a long drive back home. I recommend The Honeymoon Inn."

"What's there?" I ask, starting to pack up my things.

"History." Chains unlocked, Cyrus urges her out the door. Before she can depart completely, she leaves me with one last message.

"If you see her, tell Susie I said hi, and that she was right."

* * *

The sun was setting when Cyrus ushered me out through the same unmanned and unmarked doorway I was led in through. It's night now, and I somehow can't find the urge to leave.

From the safety of my vehicle, I stare into the opaque prison windows, wondering if Bunny's watching me from behind one of them.

She looked so different once our time ended, no longer wicked but small—tired, as if the child she spoke of replaced the woman in front of me. It's only now, as I drive out of the empty lot, that I think of an answer to her question.

"How could we be so fucking stupid? How could we put ourselves in those situations?"Because what else did they have? You were an orphan. You were abused. You could only dream of dreams. The question shouldn't be, how could they be so stupid? How could they put themselves in such dangerous situations? The question should be, how could you blame yourself for wanting to get out? How could you call yourself stupid for wanting more? More than the suffering. More than the torture.

How did society see two teenagers slaughtering grown men and women and not think there was a good reason for it?

How did I?

The questions plague me all the way to The Honeymoon Inn. Guilt weighs heavily on my heart because I wanted to meet a monster. Instead, I got a girl.

The inn is a quaint little building with four cars in its lot. Right in its window, illuminated inside a neon pink heart, the sign reads Vacancy. With the engine of my car still running, I glance around the area, eyeing the solo gas station beneath a desolate highway and barren diner to its side, and question if I want to stay—if it's safe to stay.

All around me, men loiter in the dark, the butts of their cigarettes the only thing lighting the harsh line of their grins. On the other side of the road, right beneath the bridge of the highway, the homeless gather around a burning metal bin, struggling for warmth with half-empty bottles in their hands. No woman would be caught here, let alone at night by her lonesome, but Bunny led me here, and something tells me I owe it to her to find out why.

The roar of the highway rumbles above as I step out of the car, vehicles speeding almost as quickly as the wind through my hair. Quickly, to be out of everyone's sight, I gather my work material from my seat and run around the back for my overnight bag. Hands full, I bound to the front door, hardly taking in the flyers on the glass before pushing inside.

The temperature of the reception area is hardly any different from the outside. An icy chill frosts my breath and pebbles my skin, making me doubt my decision to stay all the more.

Behind the desk, a woman somewhere in her mid-forties sits reading. Her attention is solely on Why Men Love Bitches and not the waiting woman in front of her.

"Hi," I say eventually, a stupid, confused smile plastered on my face. "I need a room for one, please."

Her eyes rake over me with gum-smacking lips, indifference her only expression. Uncrossing her legs, she sets her book on the cluttered desktop, crushing some paperwork while typing something into her monitor. "How long will you be staying?"

"Umm…" I hesitate, glancing over my shoulder to observe the men lingering. "Can I just pay as needed? Starting with one night."

She shrugs, as if there's no difference to her. "That'll be forty-five." I hand her a small stack of cash and watch her place it in a yellow manila envelope. After locking it back in a desk cabinet, she swivels in her seat, grabbing a random key from the various options behind her.

"Room 270."

I take the keyring and start to walk away, when Bunny's voice sounds in my ear. "Hey, umm…is there a Susie here?"

Any disinterest in me vanishes the second the name is out of my mouth. Instantly, tension settles between her brows, pulling them down sharply between two obsidian-colored eyes. "Who are you?"

"No one. A friend recommended me here, and she wanted me to tell Susie she said hello."

The receptionist, whose name I still don't know, considers me, her eyes only hardening as the seconds tick by. "Enjoy your stay," she finally states, glare rolling away from me back into the book on her desk. I remain standing before her for a beat, swaying slightly on my feet until there's nothing left to do but nod and walk off.

Weird.

Following the signs screwed into the wall, I amble through the dimly lit hallway, counting every room number aloud before I find mine. I take my time to get there, enjoying the feeling of the golden, feather-like triangles making up the wallpaper. Parts of it peel away from its adhesive, adding to the charm of this old building. Stepping over the shag maroon carpet, I can't help but feel as if I am transported through time—as if I got lost in it.

Room 270is carved into a round, black placard, its outer edge plated with gold. It matches the old Hollywood-style furnishings and décor dressing the hallways, a nice touch to make me love it more. I think that it can't get any better, and then I get inside.

My room walls are painted a muted pink, dulled over time. The carpet is the same as the halls outside, except adorned with a black and white polka-dot rug draped over it. A black headboard and base hold a white-sheeted mattress, fixed as expertly as any hotel. I'm ashamed to admit I'm surprised, but I cut myself some slack considering the service.

Fake plants corner every inch of the room, some as tall as the ceiling. They match the green Regency Accordion fan nailed above the bedframe and the champagne-colored feather chandelier in the center of the space. I'm encased in a lost era, and I couldn't thank Bunny more for that.

I laugh. "Wow."

After setting my belongings on the plush cream duvet, I reach inside my bag pocket, not ready for the night to be over.

"Then what do you want?"

I can't help but lean into her voice on the recording, vividly remembering the look that settled into her eyes.

"I want you to tell them why."