21. 2022

EMMA

Sleep never came.

By three in the morning, when the sky was at its darkest, and the outside was as quiet as I wish my mind were, I couldn't stay in bed any longer.

I paced the small, retro room for a bit, playing Bunny's voice out loud over and over and over until I could recite the whole damn interview with ease. Even when I turned it off, I could still hear the husky, pained emotion in her voice when she spoke about the torment, the violence—Cade. It was almost worse when she talked about him, like she carried his demons on her back as well.

I couldn't take it anymore. I turned off the recording and jumped into the shower. The magenta ceramic tub and pale blush walls reminded me of my grandma's house back home. So I stayed in here a little longer, sitting beneath the spray until it turned to ice and my skin prickled.

After wrapping myself in a soft yellow towel, I sit on the lid of the toilet, one knee tucked under my chin, and think. I'm not supposed to head over to Oakwood until noon. Leaning back, I peer through the doorway, craning my neck to get a glimpse of the clock.

7:47 a.m.

"Great."

Though I have nothing but time, I start to get ready. My hair takes the longest. Styling short hair is impossible, so I start there, brushing from vibrant, curled end to root. I take my time, watching my reflection in the mirror. Unable to stop, I can't help but compare my features to some of the girls Bunny described and how fortunate I am to have never been in their place.

By the time I finish my hair and makeup, it"s 10:27, and I only have an hour and a half left. It doesn't take much to kill that time. Ready with my equipment slung over my shoulder, I head out to the lobby. Thankfully, the cold receptionist from last night isn't seated at the front desk. Instead, a soft-faced, frail-looking older woman with pastel blue ringlets and wide-frame wire glasses sits with a steaming cup of coffee. She's focused on the newspaper before her, stuck on a word inside her word search.

"Have a nice day," I utter, ready to walk out the door.

"Yeah," she rasps. "You too."

My hand is on the knob, my foot an inch off the ground. I'm ready to leave, but, "You wouldn't happen to be Susie, would you? By any chance?"

Over my shoulder, I watch her gaze lift from the table. Her mug, rim lined with lipstick, hits the crocheted coaster to her right while a sharp look enters her eyes. "I know you?"

"No, but um…" I glance around the establishment, my boots clicking on the ground while I make sure there's no one around before I rest my elbows on the ledge. "My friend Bunny hoped you'd be here."

I don't miss the shock that parts her lips or the glimmer of tears swelling on her lash line. Hastily, she blinks them away, looking everywhere in the room but at me until they're cleared aside. "I don't know anyone by that name… I'm sorry."

"I think you do," I whisper, dipping my head to meet her gaze. "She thinks about you. Told me to tell you that you were right." I don't know what she was right about, but Susie does, and she's unable to hold back her tears this time.

Though she cries silently, choking tears, a smile spreads across her thin, pink lips. Something akin to pride shines through her. "H-How do you know her?"

"Oh," I chirp, extending my hand, "I'm a journalist. She's asked me to interview her before—" Before they end her life.

"I see… Come." Ignoring my offered greeting, she rolls away from her newspaper. I follow her around the desk into a small office in the back. It's a tight space, no more than ten-by-thirteen feet, cramped with an old floral, suede mustard couch, a wobbly wooden desk, and a filing cabinet.

It isn't the out-of-date décor or the overwhelming aroma of nicotine hanging in the air that consumes my mind. It's the stack of newspapers running up the corner of the wall. They're explicitly folded in a way that displays a cut-off version of the headline, but all of them cover the same topic. Susie catches me studying them, causing the smile to fall from her lips.

"Is she okay? None of those ever tell me."

"She's…okay. I don't know her much, but given her situation, I'd say she's doing pretty damn well. You don't see her?"

Susie exhales a sigh of relief. "That's my girl," quietly escapes before she nods ruefully. "No, I don't see her… I-I can't."

I've never heard a whisper hold so much power. It actually moves me to tears, though I don't let it show. "You sound fond of her. That's something I haven't seen from anyone who speaks of Bunny."

Irritation enters her gaze. Before responding, she reaches for the mostly empty carton of cigarettes, lights one with urgency, and takes a long pull. "Those kids—and that's what they were, Miss Reporter. They were kids. You make that clear in whatever article you're writing. Understand?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

She eyes me for a moment, the amber in her gaze burning as brightly as the butt of the cigarette. "Good. What did you say your name was?"

"Emma Brookes. I write for The Recorder." Finally, she takes my hand in a firm shake, introducing herself as Susannah Brown before sitting back and responding to my original statement.

"I am more than fond of Bernice Walters and Cade Harris. Those kids… I loved them as if they were my own."

"Despite what they did?"

Her sudden laugh spooks me. I don't believe it's a common reaction to chuckle at the mention of two teen killers. Two who had the streets of New York in a chokehold, fearful to walk down the sidewalk. And yet, she laughs.

"Something funny?" I ask, genuinely curious as to what I'm missing.

"Yes," she responds, still tittering, "it is funny. Those kids did nothing but survive. You want me to condemn them with the rest of the world? Punish them—Bunny—more than she already has been? I won't do it, and if you're looking for someone to, you can walk your ass right out of my motel."

Every word is said with such passion, such…significance that I sink under the weight of her stare. She fights for this woman, for Cade, as any mother who loves their children would. That says a lot. In a world that hates these two, in a world that's sending one to death, there's someone who still loves them.

"You love them."

She sniffles. "Dearly."

I pull out my notepad and recorder. "Mind telling me why?"