34. 2022

EMMA

The tears flow from her eyes at a painful pace, one drop after another, until they fall like a raging river. That's what I see flooding her cheeks.

Rage.

All kinds of rage and sorrow.

She drowns in it.

I drown in it.

The room fills with loss.

Reaching into my bag that sits at my feet, I pull out a travel pack of Kleenex, keeping two for myself before handing her the rest. "So it was regret. That's what you wanted me to tell Susie… That you regretted it."

Tongue in cheek, Bunny looks off to the side, falling back into her seat, exhaling broken sighs while the stream of tears never slows. "We should have gone," she says so calmly. "I should have never been so selfish. I just?—"

I wait for Bunny to continue after a minute-long pause, but she stops completely, glancing in the other direction as if Officer Cyrus could hand her the rest of her words.

"You just what?" I push after another minute goes by.

"I just," she snarls, aggressively wiping away the tears before whipping around to face me. "I just wanted them gone. I wanted them gone so we could be… so we could be…" Weakly, Bunny drops her head, letting the tears pool into her palms. "So we could be fine… I thought if they were gone," she mutters, "that we would be fine—that we could be happy."

I can see how a teenager would think that, and how, even in her mid-forties, Bunny still begs for it to be true. "You were only kids."

"And what did we have to lose, right? So much was already stolen that I thought… I thought, what the fuck? We could just kill them and run. I convinced him to run…with me. I-I killed him."

There's a different type of suffering etched along her tired features as she swallows a thought she's forced herself to believe. Holding on to her false narrative, I arch down again, slipping an old article out of my folder. It's crinkled and discolored with age, but the faces are clear as day. "I don't see that here."

I use two fingers to glide the paper across the table, and the tip of my nail to circle the hollow teen led out in cuffs. "You didn't kill Cade. You killed. You had people cowering in their homes…but you did not kill Cade. That, I'm sure of."

"I see it," Bunny whispers in a soft, shattered tone, fingers shaky as she draws the newspaper closer. Her eyes never leave the photo of her, hostage in police arms. Yet, I don't think that's what she sees when she says, "Every time I close my eyes, I see him falling. I try to catch him…" She mimics, reaching out her hand to the paper. "But I'm right back in Marone's arms, right back to him falling."

Sniffing, Bunny pushes the paper away, looking everywhere in the room but at me. "Yes. To answer your question, I regret it. I regret not leaving. I regret not saving Cade. I regret not catching him as he fell, but mostly, I regret that Marone got away with all of it. That he got to hurt Cade…even after he died."

"Why didn't you tell anyone sooner? Hundreds of reporters wanted your statement then, and you have every news station lining up for it now! We could have… I don't know! Maybe not stopped this, but something could have been different! You could have even gotten out and?—"

"I was never going to get out of here, Emma. You know that. Not alive, anyway. Even if I did say something, no one wanted to hear me. They only ever wanted the grisly details."

"Is that why you messaged me?" I ask, finally getting it off my chest. "Because you thought I'd hear you?"

Instead of addressing me, Bunny points herself toward Cyrus, flashing him a teary smile. "Can I see it now? Please, baby."

Silently, but with a tender grin, Officer Cyrus pulls a thick, brown folder from behind his chair and gently places it in her hands. Bunny flips through its contents with her tongue between her teeth, sheer concentration creasing her brows. After a moment, she comes up with a colorful page and an image I recognize.

"Why do you have that?" I ask, staring at my introduction page of The Recorder, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. Rather than answering, she points to the field I said I played in, to the tiny patch of greenery in the dead lot.

"Grass only ever grew here, in this little circle. We tried planting flowers and fruit, but nothing ever came to life except for right here. Is that why you chose to show it? Because it was the nicest part of that shitty neighborhood."

"What? H-How?—"

"You almost were able to cut out the train tracks, but you can kind of see it here. See? In the corner." Confused, I follow Bunny's nail, eyeing the tiny ledge of metal. I kept those tracks out for a reason. No one in my new life needed to see the junkies and the drunks I grew up around. I did everything I could to keep it hidden.

"You were so small. Your mom probably kept you away from there. Whenever we saw you, we let you have the patch."

A tidal wave of thoughts races through my mind as I take in details she shouldn't know. My mom did everything to keep me away from those tracks. She said she was scared I'd stick a needle or used condom in my mouth. But…what the fuck. "What are you talking about?"

Grinning, Bunny drags her finger over to the left, pointing at the edge of another memory I cut off. "I lived here, with my foster siblings. Denise was my charge. Your mom kept you away from her, too."

Flashes of a run-down, two-story filter through my mind. I was barely old enough to pour myself a glass of water, but I remember standing on the edge of a chair, cup overflowing because I was watching the kids across the street.

"Mommy, can I go play?"I asked, but my mother always told me no.

"You stay away from them, Emmy. They're not good friends for you."

But there was a little girl around my age, maybe a little older. I wanted to be her friend and her older sister"s friend so badly. "That was you? The loud one? The fearless one…"

"I chose you because you came from the same tracks I did. Because you got out when I couldn't. And because if anyone was going to hear me, it was going to be the little girl who grew up right across the street."

I walked into this interview not knowing how I'd feel by the end. I expected to listen to the gritty details and write a scathing piece on one of New York's most infamous killers and escape from the damn wedding column of the paper. I counted on this interview to help me climb the ladder. I could have never predicted the loss I'd feel alongside Bernice "Bunny" Walters and the pain of missing someone I'd never known.

"What can I do? I don't know what to do. How… How…" Faltering, I lean back, one hand in my hair, the other trying to still my racing heart. "I need to help you. I can't-I can't… I can't let you die in here. There has to be something that can slow this down."

"For what?" she asks, hands in the air, gesturing to the space around. "For this? I've lived decades without a speck of life in me, without a beating heart in my chest—with the scars, aching bones, and memories to remind me of my mistakes. I'm done now. I can rest now. I just need you to be honest… Tell the truth. Tell the world we were monsters but that we were kids, too. Raped, beaten, and brutalized kids. Tell them what they did to us. Tell them how they got away with it. Tell them the truthaboutus, and don't let them slander Cade's name…not anymore."

Feeling like the walls are closing in, I stare down at the table, eyeing the pages worth of notes, the recorder that runs, and the pictures Bunny refuses to release. I use these objects to ground me before having to break the miserable reality. "They're never going to let me publish this… Ignacio Marone is beloved by the state. People scream his name in the streets, calling him the greatest man the senate's ever had. My boss will never let this go out."

The smile never leaves her chewed lips, but her eyes reflect defeat. I probably would have been terrified if I had seen that expression when I first walked into the room. The notorious Beauty. The infamous Bunny… I would have thought she was going to kill me for disappointing her. Instead, she takes the photo of her and Cade, nothing but love and adoration in her gaze as she remembers that tiny coffee table and all the chaos that came out of it.

"I'm sure you'll figure something out." Hiding the photo against her chest, Bunny stands, confidence in me settling along her features as she prepares to leave.

"Hold on. I have something to give you," I rush out before she can go, pissed at myself for almost forgetting. Bunny stands diagonally to me while I dig through the endless contents of my bag. It was tucked into one of the pockets. I wanted it safe and pristine, just as Susie kept it.

My heart races uncontrollably when I hold the envelope out to her. Susie handed this to me when she gave me that photo, but because it was sealed, I forgot all about it, focused more on their timeless faces.

Confused, Bunny takes the slip from my fingers, holding it gently in front of her before asking, "What's this?"

"I don't know," I respond honestly. "Susie just said it was for you."

Head tilted, she eyes it for a moment longer, with a soft, "Oh," from beneath her breath. "Thank you."

She heads for the door, eyes still on the envelope, when I stop her again.

"Wait!" I swivel in my chair just as Officer Cyrus stands from his. "There has to be something. I… I don't want you to die."

"Oh, honey," she whispers, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, "All they're doing is setting me free."

* * *

The dark, empty hallways scared me when I first arrived at Oakwood. They reminded me of where people died in movies. I don't think that now, though. My thoughts are full of everything else, everything I'm supposed to do, everything I want to do—for her. For them both.

God. "Fuck!" For a moment, I let go of the rule of silence and roar my fucking head off, pouring out my rage until I'm nothing but breathy pants. "Fuck…"

"I know," Officer Cyrus murmurs, the same despondent look on his face. "I don't want her to go either."

Huffing, I swallow my despair. "Why are you so close?" I ask. I recognized their connection, their bond, from the minute I sat down. I figured it would be rude to ask, but now's probably my only time. His answer begins with a deep inhale, the keys around his belt jingling on release. Officer Cyrus doesn't look at me when he responds, but I spot the faint expression of guilt and sorrow on his face all the same.

"I met Bunny on my first night of rounds. I had, um, been checking the cells, and I noticed she wasn't asleep. You're supposed to call out, tell 'em to go to bed, and keep it moving, but it was Bunny Walters, you know? The beauty of the two. I wanted to see her, just like everyone did."

Coughing, he clears his throat, eyeing the dark and empty halls before continuing. I don't know why he did that. As far as I've seen, no one ever comes down here. Maybe he needs a minute. God… I think I might, too.

"She was sitting with her back against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest, watching the moon through her little slivered window. I called out her name, and I froze when she looked at me."

"Because she was beautiful?" As beautiful as everyone described. As beautiful as I now remember her to be when I saw her across the street.

But Officer Cyrus shakes his head. "No, because she had blood pooling down her shirt and more puddled underneath her." He describes where, with quick motions of his hands, waving from lips to stomach, from groin to ground. "I jumped to open the gate instantly, but she just laughed. She held out her hand and just…laughed."

Staring ahead, I imagine what that must have looked like, but he goes on, adding to the woman I've begun to know.

"‘I'm fine,' she told me, but I could see that she wasn't. It was obvious what had happened, but she didn't want to say anything." He gulps. "When her laughs had died, she took me in. Her hair brushed the ground when she tilted her head. I remember thinking she was getting blood in it, but she didn't care."

"Did she say anything?"

"Yeah," he laughs, a gust of breath. "She said you look just like him."

Stopping, I turn him under the soft light and examine his features, taking my time to study the curve of his nose, the shade of his eyes, and the natural smile on the edge of his lips. There weren't many photos of Cade. Besides the one Susie held on to, the other images I saw of him were the autopsy descriptions, unrealistic police sketches, and the one his uncle eventually released to the press. But my mind goes back to the photo of them at the coffee table, and my heart begins to race. "She's right. You look just like him."

Officer Cyrus seems honored, a red tint to his cheeks as we resume walking. "She asked me to visit her again after that. So, I did the next night and the next and the next. For weeks, she didn't say a thing, no matter how many questions I asked. She only wanted to look at me. I think I allowed her to pretend."

"Pretend what?"

Shrugging, he tilts his head, sadness washing over him again. "I don't know. What could have been? What their kid could have looked like if they had a chance."

I imagine it, too, and it almost sends me to my knees with anguish.

What could have been…

While I'm lost in pain, Officer Cyrus continues. "It wasn't until a Friday after she had been released from a month-long stint of solitary when she finally said something."

"What?"

"‘I missed you.' But I don't think she meant me." She missed Cade.

A tear falls for that, for the woman and boy who lost everything.

Sudden rage from Officer Cyrus surprises me. "I won't let her die for nothing. So if you can't help her, give me what you have, and I'll get that shit out there myself."

"And how will you do that?" I question, interest piqued.

"I have friends. They can get it done."

"How?" I need to know how.

"In whatever way I want." That was all I needed to hear for everything to click into place.

"Okay," I say, retribution blooming. "Let's go."