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Daniel

What? Your mom didnt tell you? Fuck I’m sorry.

Oh my GOD. My thumbs angrily tap out a response—you said you’d keep an eye on me, asshole—but I stop myself before I get too far. Being a bitch won’t get him on my good side.

Morgan

i’m fine. just need a bit

I set my phone on the table face down so I don’t have to look at the screen.

“Who was that?” Felicity asks, like there’s a chance I was holding a conversation with their evil birth parents, preparing to rat them out. “Alyssa?”

“No,” I say. “She doesn’t want to get mixed up in this, so I’m leaving her out of it.” I make sure to do the thing nonautistics like, where I only imply the actual meaning of the sentence: I’m ignoring her right now. Or, punishing is a better word. “It’s the documentary cameraman, actually. He has a crush on me.”

This does not put them at ease. “Did you tell him about the photos?”

“I already said, I’m not telling Hexagon shit.” There’s a smear of icing on my napkin. I mop it up with my finger and stick it in my mouth. “I trust them even less than you, somehow.”

“Ouch.” But it comes out of their mouth more like a sigh of relief. I roll my eyes. Of course; their precious show. Got to make sure it’s still competitive in the wildly oversaturated true crime podcast market.

Then, “Speaking of,” they say. The phone ends up on the table again, recording right between us. “You said you have the pictures with you?”

I pull the photos out of my pocket and drop them face down on the table. “Sure do.” Felicity reaches for them, and I slap a hand over the pile. “Finish eating.”

Felicity crams the rest of the cupcake in their mouth, wipes any stray frosting on their sleeve, and snatches the stack.

Across the next fifteen seconds, I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking at. Despite my childhood care team’s best efforts, and my own extensive studying of human interaction, I can’t put together the jigsaw of Felicity’s face. There’s the individual pieces of the puzzle, obviously: shock, horror, disgust. To be expected, with photos like these. Though I’m admittedly disappointed, considering that I thought Felicity, of all people, would be less prone to flinching.

But there’s more. The trickier emotions, the ones I have less of a handle on.

Grief. Pain. Softness.

It’s that rawness. The exposed nerves I pinpointed at the Smithsonian.

“Crime scene photos,” they mumble through numbed lips. “And—are these from the autopsy?”

“Did you think they were going to be glamor shots?”

Felicity takes a calming breath as they flip through the stack, apparently relying on a drink of water to keep their gorge down. Their eyes dart around. I’m not concerned about being seen, though. We’re tucked away in the back room, the barista isn’t paying attention, and our voices are quiet enough that we aren’t violating accessible hours. Past two narrow doorways, I can vaguely see the flamboyantly gay forty-something working the register, and the college-age queer with pastel colors in their goddess braids doing inventory.

“You’re fine,” I mutter. “Nobody cares.”

“It’s so bad,” Felicity says.

“And Dad only had her for …” It takes me a moment to claw through the jagged pieces of my memory. “Half an hour, at most.”

Felicity does not set down the photos or shove them into my hands, no matter how badly it looks like they want to. That’s fine. Technically, I already know what they consist of—I saw them during the trial and in Warren Hanover’s office; it’s not like they’re a mystery. It’s just that I can’t bring myself to really look.

To get up close. To study every detail and dig up old memories.

I’m not ready.

“Why her?” Felicity asks.

“She responded to the tutoring ad.”

“That’s not”—their leg bounces under the table—”that’s not what I meant. If you’d been doing this for so long, why was she the—the last straw, I guess? The reason you …”