The Suicide Barn

By Maggie Jones

You should know by the name of this tale that it will be one of woe, so when I tell you the name of the town we will be staying in for the duration, do not get your hopes up. The town of Fairview was established in the early 1900s by a Nazi War Criminal who escaped Europe in the early 1940s before the fall of the Third Reich. This man had no sense of stability or structure, no sense of business, and the people who came in after him did naught to improve the town’s situation. The one thing that could hold the town together was the church. The church, whose real name has been lost to history, sits at the highest peak of the hill in the town park, Vervuilde Schoonheid (nicknamed “The Verve”), now going by The Suicide Barn. That name has stuck since the 1980s because one of the townspeople, whose name has also been lost to history, started referring to it that way. In 1976, the Reverend was found dead, having shot himself in the heart. No note was left and there was no one close enough to the Reverend to clarify his actions, leaving the town haunted all these years later. The loss of the Reverend was like plucking the last petal of a rose for people who had any shadow of hope of surviving a town like Fairview, so the Barn became a site for many to commit suicide. 

Those who did not come to the Suicide Barn to die, renovated it, often referring to it as just “the Barn,” the local hangout for teenagers and young adults. It is three stories high; its old rooms are decorated with hay to soften the wood floors and graffiti on the walls to hide the plainness; the outside is sheathed with tie-dye paint that looks as if people were high on acid when they coated it. However, all that work has done nothing to dispel the actual darkness that surrounds and penetrates the Suicide Barn. It is not to be said literal phantasms haunt the Suicide Barn, but figuratively speaking, it is desolate, as is the rest of Fairview. 

While some families have been in Fairview since its inception, some moved here because their values aligned with its founder’s, and other people only moved to Fairview because they did not have the money to move elsewhere. Then there is Cait Sepha, one of our main characters: she is a nineteen-year-old Ebony Melanated girl whose wealthy parents moved here before she started kindergarten. Mr. Sepha works for Goldman Sachs and Mrs. Sepha works for Chanel as a fashion merchandising lawyer; it did not matter they each had to commute an hour and a half, they were willing to if it meant they could infuriate and show up the bigoted and poor white people. Cait was a top student throughout her academic career and one of the most accepted and beloved of all her peers in school, though that means very little in Fairview. Currently she attends George Washington University but is home for the holidays. 

That holiday is July 4^th in our modern times and the townspeople are gathered at the Verve. The parking lot, packed with cars, separates the two soccer fields, the one elevated is where tonight’s festivities are taking place. The Mayor—whose name need not be specified as he is nothing more than an empty promise—stands in the center of this bold, green field with two men of the law, the fireworks sitting at their feet. The pavilion to the left of the field is where most of the townspeople can be found because the eight picnic tables hold all the food: hot dogs, hamburgers, cheeseburgers, chips, sodas, and desserts such as cupcakes, cookies, and brownies, whilst lawn chairs are set up around the pavilion and in designated spots on the field for people to sit while they eat. The rusted forest-green playground across from the pavilion is filled with children, their laughs and screams of joy overlapping one another and echoing throughout the park. 

Cait stands to the side of the pavilion to overlook all the food options but is left displeased. 

“Cait, I wish you would eat something,” her mother urges. “I don’t want you to get sick.” 

“I’m just not really hungry,” Cait responds unconvincingly. 

“We could’ve packed something to eat when we were at home,” Mrs. Sepha says. 

“I said I’m not hungry!” Cait protests. 

“Not being hungry is not the same thing as not wanting to eat; and we both know it’s the latter,” her mother reasons. 

“Leave it alone!” Cait gets angrier and louder this time. 

“Don’t raise your voice at me,” Mrs. Sepha responds in a firm but calm tone. “I’m your mother and I care about your health. And you should care about your health, too.”

“I do,” Cait claims. 

“Then push yourself to eat. I am trying here, but you have got to meet me halfway.” Her mother pauses and thinks for a second. “Actually, you have to meet yourself halfway.” 

Cait opens her mouth to respond but does not when she sees Tristan Bergenzi give her a hateful smirk, causing her stomach to do a backflip. Tristan Bergenzi is a young man, the same age as Cait, and her former classmate. They used to be the best of friends, he even dated one of her best friends, but all that happiness was soon severed beyond repair or forgiveness. Her mind starts playing a montage like a movie trailer: screams and yells from people overlapping one another; the sounds of hands meeting faces in the forms of punches and slaps and the tearing of fabric; the faces of other people she used to go to school with—most of whom she considered her best friends—tears streaming down their faces, shame, betrayal…Hands gripping whatever they can find…Cait’s heart beats so fast and hard—like it’s going to break through her skin—and sweat inundates her body like a waterfall. 

“I uh—I’m going for a walk,” Cait tells her mother. 

Tristan Bergenzi’s brown eyes follow Cait as she walks away from him and keeps looking back to see if he is still glaring at her. His mind is brought back to his surroundings when his mother nudges him to move away from the dessert table, as his chestnut hair is exuding sweat and she does not want him contaminating the food. 

The Mayor and police officers wave Tristan over, beaming ignorant smiles that could brighten up the starless night sky. Tristan flounces over to them and extends his hand to shake each of theirs. Since he has been home from college, Tristan has been working in the Mayor’s office as his assistant; a situation he got by invitation. The Mayor has Tristan typing up council meeting minutes, answering phones, learning how to manage budgets, and has even been learning to help write and edit for the local paper, which is run out of the Mayor’s Office. Tonight, the Mayor has enlisted Tristan’s help to coordinate with the police to put on the fireworks display. 

“Tristan, son! Quite a clever young man you are to help plan such an extravaganza!” The Mayor exclaims impressed. 

“Thank you, Sir, but I should be thanking you for giving me the opportunity,” Tristan responds.  

“Ah you earned it kiddo,” Officer Elliot assures him. “I remember when you were in Scouts as a boy. You were always one of the most reliable and trustworthy in the pack.” 

“Thank you, Officer. You’ve always been such a role model to my brothers and me,” Tristan says. 

The Officer smiles and wraps his arm around Tristan’s neck, pulling him into a half embrace. “So, you wanna do the honors and set the fireworks off tonight?” 

Tristan is taken aback. “Really? I mean I would love to but—” 

“Sure, why not?” The Mayor says. “What kind of trouble can you get into with police officers around?” He turns his attention to the crowd and projects, “Happy Independence Day, everyone. Thank you all for coming out and sharing this joyous evening with us. Tonight we celebrate another year of freedom and our unalienable rights with a beautiful fireworks show beginning shortly.” 

The audience’s cheers and Mayor’s voice travel to the part of the trail closest to the entrance of the park, where Cait can be found walking. She takes a few deep breaths and turns around, her footing’s pace confused and her balance awry. As Cait makes her way back to the field, she tries to avoid eye contact with the Barn, but her subconscious forces her to look at it. She winces as shivers fall down her spine like raindrops and she rubs her wrists as if they had just been released from an unyielding grip. In her head, Cait can hear a maniacal sound emitting from a deep stomach and voice. A sound and voice she would rather forget.  

Although she cannot recollect walking back to the pavilion, Cait does reach her parents and stands in between them, so close they look as if they are conjoined. Using her hands, she feels around for her parents’ hands and interlocks her fingers with theirs. Mr. and Mrs. Sepha smile weakly at their daughter then look up toward the heavens. The night sky is starless with only the vague silhouette of a waxing crescent and the accompaniment of fireworks to light it up. Circular patterns of red, white, and blue expand in the sky like tie-dye on a shirt, leaving trails of smoke behind as they fall. 

When Tristan sets off the last round, the sounds of the popping and people’s acclamations converge until the noise dissipates when the last firework dissolves into smoke. 

Uninterested in staying for any further fraternization, the townspeople throw all their dirty plates in the garbage, grab their accessories, and disorderly walk to their cars while the police and the Mayor start cleaning up. Tristan tries to nonchalantly escape his responsibilities, but Mrs. Bergenzi catches him and gives him a firm look that tells him he is not to leave until he is finished, so he begrudgingly does. 

“Excuse me, Officers.” 

Tristan and the Officers look up to see Miss McCall, Logan McCall’s older sister. Logan McCall was a schoolmate of Cait and Tristan’s until Logan got expelled at the end of their junior year of high school. After his expulsion, he moved in with his older sister, whose name will not be revealed as it is not pertinent to the story. 

“Miss McCall, what can I do for you this evening?” Officer Charles asks. 

“I don’t know where Logan is and he’s not answering his phone,” Miss McCall says, her eyes watery. 

The Officers exchange expressions of annoyance and reluctance, but decide to stop cleaning. They stand up, slightly unsure of what to do first. See, the police in Fairview are just for show. It is hard to know how to do ones job if there is limited opportunity to do it in the first place. Illicit activity is the norm in a place as desolate as Fairview, where its main cultures are fear and retaliation, therefore the police are the last resort. 

Elliot asks Miss McCall, “have you asked other people?” 

“Yes, and no one else has seen him in over a day. That is why I am now asking you. I don’t know what else to do.” 

“When was the last time you saw Logan?” Charles asks, looking for clarification. 

“Early this afternoon. He said he was going out and had some things to do. He never said what he was doing, just that he’d meet me here.” Miss McCall pauses and then turns toward the parking lot to point out a beat up 2012 Black Chevy Silverado. 

Miss McCall looks toward the Barn, her eyes welling up with fear and hopelessness. The Officers look at each other again, this time more confused and suspicious. Since the officers got to The Verve, they barred the public from entering the Barn. They just felt it would be safer for everyone tonight if no one went in whilst the fireworks were going on; however, there had not been any usual or unusual activity reported from the Barn in many months and it had been quite a sleepy summer. 

“Tristan, please stay here and continue cleaning up,” Charles commands. 

Tristan nods, eyeing Miss McCall as she walks with the Officers to the Barn. Tristan’s family and the Mayor clean up the last of the food and then join Tristan to clean up the fireworks. The cars parked on the side of the street outside the Verve are gone and the parking lot is mostly empty as well, except for the cars lined up near the main entrance that are backed in waiting for traffic to let them move. 

Officers Elliot and Charles saunter up to the Barn while Miss McCall toes behind cautiously. Elliot takes out the keys and unlocks the padlock and places it in his pocket then grabs his flashlight, as does Charles, giving Elliot the cue to open the door. Miss McCall lets out a shriek and starts hyperventilating, the only liquid she is retaining coming from her eyes. The Officers’ flashlights spotlight Logan McCall’s body hanging from the rusty, seven-foot-high metal beam. 

“Oh my god! My brother! My sweet baby brother!” Miss McCall runs over to his body and attempts to embrace it, but Charles holds her back and comforts her. 

Officer Elliot delicately steps forward and examines Logan’s body: the knot of the rope is settled behind his neck, where the bruise is bold on his paling tan skin that glistens with sweat, as does his brown hair and disheveled plain red t-shirt and black basketball shorts. 

“This wasn’t a suicide,” Elliot concludes alarmed. 

Charles ceases patting Miss McCall’s head and fixates on his partner in astonishment. Miss McCall lifts her head up and out of Charles’s arm, his sleeve wet from her tears and snot. 

“Look, his hands are bound behind his back and the knot is behind his neck. How could he have done this to himself?” Elliot shines his flashlight on Logan’s back highlighting his tied-up hands. 

Charles leaves Miss McCall’s side and goes to examine the body. His eyes transfer nervously from his partner to Miss McCall. 

“You’re gonna find out who did this, right? I mean, you have to at least try,” Miss McCall pleads. “Someone killed my baby brother!” 

The Officers stare at each other with anxiousness and uncertainty. “We’ll do our best, Miss McCall,” Elliot assures her somewhat unconvincingly. 

Suicides are first nature to the police, as there is not much investigating to be done, just paperwork to be filed. However, a murder? Elliot and Charles pierce each other and Logan McCall’s dangling dead body with bewildered eyes. Dread! Fear…! Hopelessness. Suddenly the town of Fairview grew too massive. 

LANDFILL

BREAKING NEWS: MURDER IN FAIRVIEW

On the evening of July 4^th, Logan McCall was found dead in The Suicide Barn at Vervuilde Schoonheid. Police concluded that cause of death was murder by hanging. Police have begun an investigation but decline to comment further on it. 

Logan McCall was 19 years old and an employee of Tractor Supply in the next town over. He lived in Fairview with his family since his birth. If you want to send your condolences, you may visit them on 4 Führer Street any day between 12pm-4pm. 

Tristan sits at his simple wood writing desk, glaring down at the story. He leans back in his chair, spinning it in a waxing crescent shape, and then turns his attention to the rest of his desk, filled with sticky notes and a writing pad, all inked with names and numbers of people who have been calling with questions about Logan McCall and what is going to happen with the Barn and the Verve, which are now closed off to the public. All Tristan could do was take messages and tell them the Mayor will get back to them. The Mayor has been busy with the police and the McCall family since the morning and therefore has been unable to answer any calls. 

A knock on his desk jerks Tristan back to the moment. He looks up to see the Mayor. 

“How are things here?” 

“Busy.” Tristan gathers the sticky notes and the notepad in a discombobulated manner. “I’ve been getting a lot of calls from people asking all sorts of questions about Logan and the Barn and the Verve—” 

“I’ll handle all that, son. Did you get done what I asked you to?” 

“Yes, Sir.” Tristan grabs the typed rough copy of the news story and hands it to him. 

The Mayor looks it over nodding his head. “I’m sure this will be fine. It might need a few tweaks but it looks good, nonetheless. Thank you again, Tristan. I know this was probably weird for you since you were friends with Logan.”

“Not really,” Tristan says with apathy. 

“I thought you two used to be good friends.” 

“Used to be, but then we just grew apart as we got older. I was just so busy with Honors and AP classes, sports, scouts…and he was busy getting into trouble.”  

The Mayor shrugs it off. “Why don’t you go home for the rest of the day? I know this is a bit of a difficult situation and I don’t want you to get caught in the middle.” 

“Thank you, Sir, but are you sure you don’t need anything else? I don’t mind it, really.” 

“No worries, kiddo,” the Mayor responds exhausted, patting Tristan’s shoulder. “I just got to think about what our next moves are going to be and get this fixed up and published before the close of business today.” 

Tristan nods and shakes the Mayor’s hand. Tristan double checks his computer to make sure everything is saved and all the windows are closed out, then he logs out and shuts it down. He grabs his phone, keys, and wallet, and then walks out of the municipal building smirking that famous smirk. 

The sounds of High School Musical fill the living room while Cait dances along, her feet imprinting the burgundy Oriental carpet and her eyes fixated on the 75-inch flat screen that sits on the obviously expensive stand. She falls back into the red leather sectional, laughing and panting while her eyes drift over the cream-colored walls decorated with photographs of her family throughout the years. Cait reaches into the cupholder on her right and grabs the almost empty pint of cookie dough ice cream and eats the last spoonful. She then takes it into the kitchen and throws it out in the garbage, which is overflowing with empty food bags and containers from the rest of the day. Cait opens the snack cabinet and takes out various bags of chips—Potato, Barbecue, Tostitos—and places them on the counter, but as she looks at all the bags, she gets exceedingly overwhelmed and decides to place them back where they belong. 

The key turns in the lock and the door is pushed open by Cait’s mom. She struggles holding her purse and the pizza box. Cait goes over and grabs the pizza from her mom and places it carefully on the island. Mrs. Sepha shuts the door behind her and makes her way into the kitchen. 

“I see you’ve been eating today,” Mrs. Sepha says looking at the garbage can.  

“I was hungry.” 

Mrs. Sepha smiles. “I’m very glad to hear that. I just hope you’ll eat healthier in the future.” She opens one of the mahogany cabinets and pulls out two plates and sets them on the counter, then opens the pizza box and serves her daughter first. Mrs. Sepha then puts a slice on her plate. “Come join me.” 

“So you say eat healthier, but you bring pizza home?” Cait laughs. 

“That’s because I didn’t want to cook tonight. Long day at work,” Mrs. Sepha explains. 

Cait follows her mom into the sunlit dining room with its marble table and ivory walls, leaving it unnecessary for the chandelier to be on. 

“How do you feel?” Mrs. Sepha does not waste any time. 

“Besides happy and relieved?”

“This might just be euphoria, Cait. Which means it won’t last.”

“I know,” Cait says disappointed. 

“Now I want to be clear: I don’t think you’re wrong for being happy Logan McCall is dead, I just think you need to focus on yourself more than him.” 

“I understand,” Cait responds truthfully, seceding to the fact her mother is correct. 

“Have the police been by here to talk to you?” Mrs. Sepha eyes her daughter softly and firmly. 

Cait shakes her head. “I feel like it’s only a matter of time though.” 

“Well maybe they won’t since they don’t know about what happened in the first place. Which I realize now is a good thing, otherwise they’d have reason to pin Logan’s murder on you and I have no doubt they would if they could,” Mrs. Sepha says with disdain. 

Cait’s mind and eyes get lost in her plate of pizza. “I really don’t think they will though. No one liked Logan McCall. No one—unless you count Tristan. Pretty much everyone McCall has ever come across has reason to want him dead.” Her stomach now fills with dread just as much as pizza, as she fears Tristan will be the one to tell the police about what happened between Cait and Logan. Because no doubt Logan bragged to his best friend about nailing the Token Nigger, even by force. The one that came between them. She grimaces as her brain repeats those words to her over and over like a broken record. 

 A few days later, Tristan and Officers Elliot and Charles sit in the Mayor’s office together. Charles has made himself comfortable in the armchair to the side with his notepad open and his pen ready while Elliot sits across from Tristan who is sitting behind the Mayor’s desk. 

“So, Tristan, did you and Logan McCall go to school together?” Elliot begins.  

“Yes, Officer. For a long time.” 

“Do you remember how long exactly?” 

Tristan looks at the wall while processing in his head then turns back to the officer, “11 years. From kindergarten until junior year of high school.”  

“Not senior year?” 

Tristan takes a deep breath. “Logan was caught taking drugs in the boys’ locker room one day after Track practice, so the principal expelled him.” He lets a chuckle escape his mouth.  

Elliot whispers to himself, “That was never reported to us.” He looks up at Tristan suspiciously, “that’s funny to you, son?” 

“It was funny to a lot of people in our class, even the teachers. He was the bad kid in school. Everyone knew it, so they weren’t surprised when they heard what happened, they were just surprised it didn’t happen sooner, or that he wasn’t caught sooner.” 

“Can you think of anything specific?” 

“He was always causing trouble in class. Just not shutting up and the teachers always had to kick him out so they can actually teach.” Tristan pauses and studies Charles as he records their conversation on his pad. “He uh, he wasn’t nice to people either. He bullied a lot of kids in our class.” 

“But not you.”  

“No. We used to be the best of friends,” Tristan admits. 

“Really? Like a brother-from-another-mother sort of deal?”  

Tristan nods his head smiling, “I guess you can say that. See, his mom was always kind of a bi—"

 Elliot surveys Tristan softly and kindly urges him, “it’s alright, kiddo. Go on. This is a safe space for you to talk freely. And believe me I’ve heard worse.” 

“Well to be honest: both his parents sucked. That’s why we used to hang out at my house all the time and why he was the way he was to people at school. The few times I did go over to his house, Mr. and Mrs. McCall were always yelling at him for nothing and telling him he was stupid. They used to say he was useless and worthless. And I think there was once something said about wishing they had aborted him,” Tristan finishes. 

“That sounds rough. I’m sorry you had to watch your friend go through that.”

Tristan shrugs. “He was a pretty good friend at one point, when we were really young, and I tried to make it work for as long as I could because I felt bad for him—”  

“But…” Elliot pushes. 

Tristan’s demeanor and expression change entirely and leans back in his seat, breaking eye contact with Elliot and clearly pensive and careful about what his next words should be. 

“Tristan, friends fall out all the time. It’s okay. I understand that. You’re not in trouble for anything. Was there something specific that happened?” 

“We started growing apart in high school. We weren’t in the same classes. I was busy with Baseball and Football and he was busy with Track. By the time junior year came around, I had made some new friends and was dating a girl from our class, Rose Wane. Logan and I had tried to reconcile a friendship, but he just kept screwing up in school and—” 

“And?” Elliot asks. 

“I thought maybe he was done giving people a hard time, but I was wrong. About midway through junior year, Rose, our friends, and I went to go hang out in the Barn and we caught Logan…on top of a girl we went to school with. She was crying and—” 

Charles stops writing and looks up at Tristan and Elliot leans back in his seat, awestruck. “You mean you saw Logan McCall sexually assault a girl?” 

Tristan nods and continues, “Brayden Edelstein. We went to school with her since first grade. I pulled him off of her and held him back while Rose and our friends helped Brayden up and get her clothes back on.” 

“And no one reported this?” 

“Brayden was too embarrassed and pissed off to let anyone help her. She didn’t want to report it and Rose and the other girls said we should respect her wishes.” 

“Even though the rape didn’t happen on school grounds, was it reported to the principal?” Elliot asks worrisome.  

Tristan shakes his head. “I don’t think so, but Brayden really did her best to avoid us at school. So yeah, that was when I officially dropped Logan and said I was done with him.” 

“Good call. It sounds like Brayden just wanted to maybe forget it,” Elliot says. “Have you tried talking to her recently?” 

Tristan shakes his head. “You might want to ask Cait Sepha. She’s a friend of my ex-girlfriend, Rose, and was there when Logan assaulted Brayden. I know Cait was really worried about Brayden and during our graduation party she talked about wanting to reach out to her, but I can’t say for sure if she ever did.”

Charles finishes writing the last sentence and Elliot nods, satisfied that he got the information he needed, but also quite grim. He stands and extends his hand to Tristan. “Thank you for all your help, son. I know it probably wasn’t easy for you to share any of that. If there’s anything else you can think of, please come by our station, or give us a call.” 

“Logan McCall pissed off just about everyone he ever came across. He was one of the most hated people I’ve ever met. Ask other officers in the department, I guarantee you they have stories to tell about his ‘conduct’ that may not be in your files. If he really was murdered, you have your work cut out for you, because that’s a long list of suspects. Not just the girl he raped a couple years ago, who I don’t even think was there for the fireworks that night,” Tristan concludes. 

The Officers nod at him, then exit the office, being escorted out by the Mayor. Tristan struts over to his desk, placing his body in the chair the way someone with back pain gets into a hot tub. He listens for the sounds of doors opening and shutting and smirks to himself. 

The ring of the doorbell startles Cait, who sits on the couch reading a mental health book her mother checked out of a library near her office. She puts the book down, goes over to the door, and looks out the peephole to see a young woman. Cait opens the door to get a better look at the girl: brown hair, brown eyes, five and a half feet tall, small muscles from shoulders to calves…and recognizable. 

“Brayden? Brayden Edelstein?” 

“Cait, may I come in?” 

“Sure.” Cait’s confused expression follows Brayden as she walks through the dining room and into the kitchen. “You remember where I live?” 

Brayden looks at her baffled and says, “You and your parents used to make sure people knew where you lived so everyone could gawk at your big fancy house with jealousy.” 

Cait’s mouth closes and she looks to the ground, both embarrassed and offended, but decides not to entertain the insult. “You’re looking great! What can I do for you?” 

“You can tell me why you told the police about McCall sexually assaulting me.”

Brayden’s words send a punch to Cait’s gut and she takes a few steps back, almost losing her footing. “I didn’t tell the police anything.” 

“Then who was it? Rose? Was this some kind of payback? Even though I did nothing to any of you, you just liked to defend your friends after all the shit they put me through.”

Shame infests Cait’s entire body, sending torturous jabs throughout, particularly to her heart and head. “I don’t know, Brayden, but it couldn’t have been Rose. She hasn’t even been around this summer; and besides, she never blamed you. Neither did I by the way and I’m a little offended at the implication.”  

Brayden feels her legs start to give out, so she sits on one of the chairs at the island.  

Cait sighs but nods her head, understanding Brayden’s demeanor is justified. “I know I was terrible when we were really young, but I grew up—” 

“And stayed friends with the people who caused me trauma,” Brayden points out. “Real grown up of you. I think you just liked being the Token Ni—” She catches herself and bites her tongue. Brayden turns inward toward the island and crosses her arms on its coldness, burying her head in her arms. She takes deep and audible breaths. 

“Where have you been this summer?” Cait asks, cracking the silence.  

“I’ve been working a few towns over and doing an internship. I wanted to try and avoid this cesspool as much as possible,” Brayden replies. 

“Well something else made you come back Brayden,” Cait points out. She studies Brayden’s body language and the way her soulless eyes cast around and side-eye Cait.  

“McCall dm-ed me on snapchat a few weeks ago. He said he wanted to make things right.”

Cait raises an eyebrow. “How do you make something like that right?” 

“Kill yourself,” Brayden says with both spite and laughter. 

Cait laughs. “I should not find that funny, but you may be right.” She takes a serious tone again. “So what did you say to him?”

“I told him fuck no and never contact me again.”

“I assume you didn’t tell the police any of this,” Cait guesses. She ponders for a second. “Would you like something to drink? A glass of water maybe?”

“Yes, please.” 

Cait walks over to the cabinets and grabs an 8-ounce glass and fills it three quarters of the way then places it in front of Brayden, who consumes the water as if it is the only thing saving her life in that very moment. 

“It must have been Tristan Bergenzi,” Cait blurts. “It must have been Tristan who told the cops about the sexual assault, and conveniently left his name out of it to make himself look like the good guy.”

 “WHAT?” Brayden shouts, spitting water out. “HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?” 

“He is interning for the Mayor this summer and has a special relationship with the cops because of it,” Cait explains. 

“Why am I not surprised? Tristan Bergenzi…he had all of you thinking he was a good guy. And you let him act like that.” She flashes a look of hurt and spite toward Cait. 

“Rose ended her relationship with Tristan. We all cut ties with him,” Cait defends. “At no point did we ever want things to get that bad and we certainly did not think they would. We wanted to report it but you were the one who said no.” There is a pause. “Besides…I paid the price too.”  

Brayden turns to Cait and sees the pain in her eyes. “I’ll be honest, I can’t help but feel like that’s karma.” “That is not going to help either of us. What else did the police say?” 

“They just said they’ll be in touch,” Brayden conveys. 

Cait patiently waits for Brayden to continue the conversation, but instead Brayden just fixates on the cabinets whilst she bites her nails and shakes her leg. Hesitantly, Cait steps to Brayden’s right side and extends her hand to grab Brayden’s right hand out of her mouth. Cait gently holds her wrist and grabs a napkin to wipe Brayden’s fingers. Robotically, her lightless eyes turn to the side to survey Cait whilst her lips knit themselves. Cait crumples the napkin up and then goes to throw it out.  

“Well, if McCall really wanted to make things right, he would’ve talked to Bergenzi about it, wouldn’t he have?” Brayden asks. 

Cait nods. “That certainly makes sense.”   

“Which means that Bergenzi knew McCall already tried to reach out to me,” Brayden continues. 

“Maybe Tristan talked to the police in hopes so they would not look at him?” Cait theorizes. 

“I think the cops would have gone to soul-crusher anyway. It’s no secret they were friends,” Brayden points out. 

“By now, the police should realize Logan made an enemy of just about everyone he met. I bet they talked to other people. I am flabbergasted they have not spoken with me yet, but I am sure it is just a matter of time.” Cait ceases explanation as she takes notice to Brayden attempting to process everything with a glassy look in her eyes, a ghostly face, and shallow breaths. Cait steers the conversation softly, “Brayden, we will figure this out together.” 

A light catches hold of Brayden’s eyes, making them look like pools of honey and she slowly turns to Cait, who is sitting next to her now. Brayden manages to smile. “Thank you,” she says softly. “I’m sorry I accused you of talking to the police.” 

“I forgive you,” Cait replies. 

“And I am sorry about all the other shitty things I said,” Brayden continues. 

“Thank you. As hurtful as they were, I would probably feel the same way if I were you,” Cait says understandingly. “Why don’t we sit on the couch where it is more comfortable?” 

“I can’t sit still right now. Can we take a drive?” 

“Where do you want to go?” 

“The Verve,” Brayden replies without hesitation. 

Cait stops the car on the side of the road by the entrance of the park. The car becomes heavy with fear and with shame, with anger so palpable Cait becomes anxious Brayden will break. Brayden fixates on the Barn, which has caution tape around it. In a daze, her eyes devour the site as her mind plays the same horrid montage that played in Cait’s mind in the beginning of our terrible tale. The specifics do not need to be specified, for the details describing an already established event are too graphic for print. 

Brayden exits the car and cautiously lurches toward the Barn. Cait sits in the car another minute, her body still weighed down by all their emotions drowning the car. With barely a breath, she gets out of the car and follows Brayden, a fast pace helping Cait to catch up to her. 

“Brayden, wait. What are we doing here?” 

“A very twisted form of therapy,” Brayden replies. 

Cait gazes at Brayden, a hint of pride filling her up. “This is your way of getting closure.” 

“It might help you too,” Brayden adds with sincere kindness. 

Cait intertwines her fingers with Brayden’s and they walk together, this time with more courage and at a more appropriate pace for both of them. They make their way up to the Barn and stand in front of it, both sets of eyes taking in the haunting site. The door has a pad lock on it, there is caution tape all around it, and although the paint job still looks the same, it feels different. There is both a dullness and a glow to the Suicide Barn. As if all the ghosts of the people who died inside are finally free. As if it has just become a regular barn, rather than a Suicide Barn. Rather than the local hangout. 

“I can’t help but feel like this is a good thing,” Brayden concludes after minutes of silence. 

“What do you mean?” Cait turns to Brayden with curiosity. 

“Well, there’s caution tape and a padlock. No one is allowed in right now, but maybe they’ll decide no one is allowed in ever again.” 

“I see what you are getting at. Maybe they will bulldoze it.” 

Light and hope fill Brayden’s eyes. “So McCall’s death is good for everyone.”

“Let’s think about it like this: no one liked Logan McCall,” Cait points out. 

“Have you ever seen Goodfellas?” Brayden inquires. 

Cait looks at her a little confused and replies, “No, I have not.”

“There is a scene where a bunch of the mafia wives are talking about their husbands and sons either ending up dead or in jail, and one of the women says, ‘as soon as something happens you automatically make them out to be saints,’” Brayden explains. “I bet people will all of a sudden act like McCall was so wonderful and tell his parents how sorry they are for their loss and what a good kid he was.” 

A voice comes from behind both girls, “Well I certainly did.” 

Brayden freezes, her mind playing that torturous montage again. Chills cloak her body like Death. She knows that voice. She cannot forget that smooth timbre, the arrogance hiding behind that angelic inflection, the salt disguised as sugar…Brayden and Cait turn around so they are face-to-face with Tristan Bergenzi. 

“If I were you, I would go pay my respects. I would hate for anyone to suspect you,” Tristan advises. 

“You two-faced, manipulative, piece of shit!” Brayden steps forward with a clenched fist at the ready, but Cait holds her back. 

“You really want to do that?” Tristan taunts. “You haven’t been back here in almost three years, whereas I have been man of the town.” 

Cait holds Brayden, whose anger becomes much more palpable and more grueling to contain. 

“You were the one who told the cops I killed McCall.” Brayden grits her teeth. 

“Actually, I only told them about the rape. I also told them everyone hated him and you weren’t the only one with motive to kill him,” Tristan clarifies. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be so quick to accuse, it just makes you look even more guilty.”

“I bet you didn’t tell them you were a part of the rape,” Brayden spouts. 

“I think you’re misremembering.” Tristan smiles at her sanctimoniously. 

Cait does her best to keep her composure. “Tell the truth, Tristan. Give Brayden closure. You owe her that much.”  

Tristan rolls his eyes and scoffs. 

“What are you even doing here?” Brayden asks. “Did you follow us?” 

“I just came for a jog. Weather’s beautiful, don’t ya think?” 

“You always have an answer for everything, don’t you, Tristan?” Cait stands in between him and Brayden, who has only just started to calm down. 

“How would I know you’d be coming here?” Tristan expression conveys mocking innocence. “I didn’t even know you’d be back here, B.B.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Brayden demands. 

“I used to call you that all the time,” he claims. “You never had a problem with it.” 

“You think you can try to gaslight me about that day,” Brayden says with confidence and calmness, “but I know what happened. You think you can manipulate people into believing you’re a good guy, but what goes around comes around, Bergenzi. Your day will come.” 

“Brayden, we should leave now,” Cait advises with a cooing voice. 

Brayden refuses to quarrel with Cait and walks toward the car with anger masked by confidence, as if to send a message to Tristan. Cait follows behind, leaving with a look of both fear and disappointment. Tristan sneers as he watches them leave the Verve. 

Officers Elliot and Charles sit at their desks, the former devouring the witness statements and the latter doing the same but with the medical examiner report. Over the past few days, they have interviewed dozens of former classmates and former teachers, all of whom have similar stories regarding Logan McCall’s behavior whilst alive. McCall was even more so bigoted than normal in this day in age in Fairview, advocating for violence against black people, Jewish people, and LGBTQ people; he constantly used aggressive and abusive language when he spoke to people, young and old; he was untrustworthy, irresponsible, and unreliable. In high school, McCall had been caught making methamphetamine and was kicked out of school. The criminal charges were minor and ineffective and afterward he went on to using the drug. His sister, Miss McCall, told the police he had gotten clean before he died and was trying to make amends, but no one in town seemed to know anything about his journey to a better path. 

As already established when his body was first discovered, Logan McCall’s hands were bound. In conjunction, the medical examiner reports that a blunt object had struck his crane premortem, his death being placed first thing in the morning of 4^th of July. After interviews with the townspeople, the police discovered no one had been in the Barn that day, as there was no reason to be there that early in the morning on a holiday. People were either sleeping in or eating breakfast with family and by noon the Barn had been closed off by the police for the fireworks, and the rookie officer who had closed it off had not seen fit to check inside before closing it off because it was still early. 

Brayden and Cait walk into the police station, disrupting the eerie silence that shrouds the policemen, who look up at the girls flabbergasted. Elliot and Charles close the files and stand up from their desks. 

“Miss Edelstein,” Officer Elliot greets, “and you are Cait Sepha right? I have met your parents a few times.” 

“Yes.” Cait studies the Officer up and down, with a hint of apprehension. 

“What can we do for you ladies?” Officer Charles asks. 

“Oh so now you want to be helpful?” Brayden scrunches her nose contemptuously at Officer Charles. 

“Brayden,” Cait urges. 

“You came to us, Miss Edelstein,” Officer Elliot corrects. “Is there something you have to say?” 

“Technically you came to me,” Brayden reminds. “You dragged me back here after years of trying to bury this shit just because the asshole is dead.”

“We weren’t trying to accuse you, Brayden,” Officer Charles assures kindly. “We found messages from him to you and we just wanted to know if you met in person as well. We are sorry about what he did to you. Believe me we are relieved it’s not you.” 

Brayden shifts from one foot to the other, uncomfortable by the heartfelt words from the policeman. 

Cait breaks the silence, “we have a few things to tell you, privately.” 

Officer Elliot nods and he and Charles lead the girls back to an interview room where they can talk privately. They sit down and Cait motions to Brayden to start the conversation. Brayden’s eyes shift uncomfortably from the policemen to Cait but she finally relinquishes. 

“So, you know that McCall sexually assaulted me. What you don’t know is that Tristan Bergenzi had a part in that.” Brayden is astonished at not only how easily the words came out of her mouth, but how her body suddenly feels as if she is lying in a bed of clouds. 

Officer Elliot sits back in his chair, grimacing at Officer Charles, whose hand quivers as he writes in his notepad, and Brayden, trying to process this new information. 

“I don’t have any proof—”

“But I was there,” Cait interrupts. “I saw what happened. As did my best friend Rose. We walked in to the Barn and saw Logan and Tristan. When the boys saw us they stopped. I had threatened to report them, but Brayden said no. I guess that didn’t matter to McCall though…because he uh, he sexually assaulted me too, only weeks later. Tristan knew about it, but he didn’t have a part in it.” 

“Okay girls,” Officer Elliot says in a breathy voice. 

Officer Charles stops writing, his eyes fixated on the notepad, void of any feeling left in his body, looking as if he had just seen a ghost. 

“Is there anything else about Tristan you can tell us?” Officer Elliot asks shakily. 

“He has no friends anymore,” Cait goes on to explain. “He is untrustworthy and unreliable. Tristan treated the few friends he had left like trash. Not a single one of them are friends with him anymore. You can ask them.” 

“Do you believe us?” Brayden asks. 

“I’m going to be honest, it’s a little hard to believe this about Tristan,” Officer Elliot concludes. 

“It’s actually more that a jury is going to have a hard time believing all this about Tristan,” Officer Charles explains, seeing that Brayden’s demeanor is about to shift to anger. “We ourselves could testify to his good character as could the Mayor, a judge would allow our testimony unless he feels it would unfairly prejudice the jury.” 

“His ex-friends and Rose could testify to his behavior, they have credibility,” Cait says. 

“We will talk to Rose. We know she’s not around this summer, she’s at an internship, but we will give her a call. Give us the names of the other friends,” Officer Elliot orders in a sharp yet kind manner. 

“Ben Keyson and Grayson Zane,” Cait answers. 

Brayden gazes off into space as the scribbles and the voices become distant noises. In her head, the aftermath of the assault plays out. The limp walk home in a daze. Her clothes wet with sweat and blood. The feeling that she just wanted to crawl out of her skin and into a newly fashioned one. Her mom’s face crumbling when she saw the light was gone from her baby girl’s eyes. Wondering if it would ever come back again. Wondering if it was even possible. The fear of seeing them again. 

Cait fixates on the officer inscribing all the information into his notepad, the scratching of the pen muffling as her mind flashes back to her own horrors. The panting like a canine in heat perforates her ears. The taunting leaves a hollow feeling in her body and her head. Her tears fall onto her neck, blending in with her sweat. 

An alarm in Brayden’s head turns her attention to Cait, whose brown eyes go glassy and her pupils small. Brayden nonchalantly pushes over a cup of pens onto her hand to bring her back. 

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry!” She picks up the pens and puts them back in the cup, with Cait’s help. 

Cait smiles at Brayden with her eyes. Without the Officer’s noticing, she mouths, thanks, and Brayden smiles back, giving a discreet nod of her head. 

Officer Elliot opens McCall’s case file and meticulously reads the autopsy report. He then looks at the photographs taken of the body. There was DNA taken from under McCall’s fingernails, and tests revealed it did not match any of the McCall family. The police even tested McCall’s boss, who also did not match. Officer Elliot closes the file and looks up at the two young women, eyes full of sorrow and hope. 

“We don’t have enough probable cause to get a warrant for a DNA sample, I’m afraid,” Officer Elliot explains. “Even if you tell a judge what you told us, it won’t do much. There’s no evidence, you two didn’t press charges. Legally speaking, the sexual assaults did not happen. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but all we have a is a wild theory about why Tristan may have killed Logan.” 

“I wouldn’t call that a ‘wild theory,’ though, Officer,” Brayden says defensively. “It’s pretty simple and obvious. McCall was going to take accountability for what he did and was going to rat out Bergenzi in doing so. So Bergenzi killed him before he could. 

“Officer Elliot doesn’t mean you’re crazy or that you’re lying, Miss Edelstein. He just means that without any physical evidence, outcry, or police report, a judge can’t and won’t just give us a warrant for his DNA with only two witness testimonies. Even if a judge believes the testimonies, he or she has to follow the law and give a fair shake to whomever may or may not be accused of something,” Officer Charles explains politely. 

“Wait a minute,” Officer Elliot pipes up. “Miss Sepha, you said you were a witness to Miss Edelstein’s sexual assault?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Cait confirms. 

“Alright, I want you two to sign these statements I have made of Miss Edelstein’s sexual assault. Maybe because you were a witness and can corroborate Miss Edelstein’s assault, I can sell this to a judge,” Officer Elliot concludes, giving the young women a glimmer of hope.” 

Feelings of sadness and hopelessness hang over the officers’ desks as they stare down at the rejected DNA warrant, but the warrant for a wiretap. Officer Elliot looks up at the doorway to see Brayden and Cait walking toward them. The young women study Officer Elliot’s somber aura and walk up to the desks, skeptically and gradually. 

“Girls,” Officer Elliot begins, “we’re sorry to have to tell you this, but the judge said he would not sign a warrant for Tristan Bergenzi’s DNA.” 

“I knew it,” Brayden replies bitterly. 

“I had hoped…” Cait adds. 

“Unfortunately we don’t have anything else connecting Tristan to Logan’s murder. The judge believed your statements about the sexual assaults, but unfortunately that’s not enough to compel a DNA sample or enough to even connect Tristan to Logan’s murder at all,” Officer Charles says. 

“So that’s it then. He just gets away with this,” Brayden concludes somberly. 

“No,” Officer Elliot assures. “We need your help.” 

Brayden and Cait look at each other and then back at the officers quizzically. 

“We would like to wire one of you and have you both meet with him. Tristan won’t admit it to one of us, but if you two confront him, he may admit it to the both of you,” Officer Charles explains. 

“Fat chance,” Brayden spats. 

“Brayden, we have to at least try it,” Cait says with calm and ease.

“We will be close by listening to everything,” Officer Charles says with reassurance. 

“I’ll be right by your side,” Cait also reassures. 

“Just don’t attack him,” Officer Elliot warns as he reads Brayden’s face. 

Brayden glares back at Officer Elliot, an ambiance of guilt and irritability taking over the environment and Brayden’s body. 

“We’ll have to meet him back at the Suicide Barn for that to happen,” she concludes. 

“I think that’s fair,” Officer Charles agrees. 

“Something tells me he won’t fold unless he’s actually face-to-face with us at the place…where…where it, uh, happened.” Brayden struggles through the words this time as her body gets heavy and her stomach starts to churn.

“As I said, I’ll be right by your side,” Cait says, holding tight to Brayden’s hand. 

The young women nod to the officers who look to each other, the wheels turning in their heads. 

“We really didn’t want to put either of you in this position, but this was the only warrant the judge would sign,” Officer Charles says, trying his best to be comforting and reassuring. 

Cait and Brayden wait impatiently in front of the Barn for Tristan, pacing and sweating. Brayden had already gotten sick before they left and Cait had meditated to calm her nerves. A car pulls up in the parking lot and out comes Tristan dressed in cargo shorts, a wife beater, and somewhat worn-out sneakers. He walks up to the young women at the top of the hill, smirking that infamous and bone-chilling smirk. 

“It’s the Fairview Sluts,” Tristan greets maniacally. “Although you’re not so fair.”

Cait stands still, as if a force such as Thor’s hammer has shattered her body. Brayden’s insides start seething and her face becomes torrid with humiliation and fury, but she thinks back to everything the law enforcement officers and Cait told her. 

“Is that the best you can come up with?” Brayden retorts. “The same script that all rapists use.” 

“I have more important things to deal with than you, so in the interest of saving time, why don’t you two just tell me what you want?” 

Cait responds, “The last time we talked was not exactly how we wanted things to go. We just…we know that Logan came to see you about what happened to both of us. We know he wanted to come clean.” 

“And?” 

“And he wanted you to come clean too,” Brayden adds. 

“I told him he can keep me out of his found-Jesus moment. It’s over and done with and it doesn’t make a difference anymore,” Tristan says coldly. 

“I actually believe that,” Brayden says, “but only partially.” 

“I don’t care—” 

“Yes you do,” Brayden says in a sing-songy voice. “That’s something we had in common. Which is why I broke up with you way back when, because it was your friend who tormented me and all you told me was not to worry so much about what others thought of me. Then you turn around and put on this act for everybody like you’re so wonderful. Such a gentleman. A pillar of the community. See all the oblivious adults see that side of you, but we know the truth about you. We know that you would do ANYTHING to protect your image. You absolutely care about what others think of you.”

Tristan’s wrath festers. 

“Did I strike a nerve?” 

“How did the conversation really go with you and Logan, Tristan?” Cait continues, trying to penetrate the anger in the air before it can escalate. 

“I just came here to talk some sense into him, but he ended up attacking me! That’s why I had to use my bat to defend myself,” Tristan claims. “And I panicked so I strung him up to make it look like a normal suicide. But it was self defense I swear.” 

Cait and Brayden smirk at each other the way Tristan would smirk at them. 

“What?” He inquires, noticing the smirks. 

The sound of the sirens and the vehicles they are attached to enter The Verve whilst Cait lifts her shirt halfway to show Tristan the wire attached to her. Tristan’s fury somewhat dissipates and blends with panic. He turns ghostly and stands in front of Cait and Brayden almost paralyzed.

“See, if it was self-defense, where are the defensive wounds?” Brayden taunts. 

“I also don’t remember mentioning him being beaten with a bat. Do you remember saying that, Brayden?” Cait continues in the same tone. 

“Why no, Cait, I don’t.” 

“Well, well, the cops told me. When they first talked to me,” Tristan sputters. 

“No we did not, kiddo,” Officer Elliot says, walking up to the scene with Officer Charles. “Alright girls, you’ve done great. We’re going to need you back at the station just one more time, then you can get going. I’ll have this officer here give you a ride.” 

Cait and Brayden exit the scene with the rookie officer and look back satisfactorily as they watch Tristan get arrested. 

“Hands behind your head, please,” Officer Charles begins. He walks over to Tristan and pats him down. The Officer then takes Tristan’s hands from his head, placing them in handcuffs. “Tristan Bergenzi, you are under arrest for the murder of Logan McCall. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?” 

Tristan nods but remains silent as the officers walk him down the hill. They place him in the back of their patrol car and he looks up at the Suicide Barn. Looking back at him is the soul he left behind there. The soul he left when he sexually assaulted Brayden and the soul he left when he killed Logan to cover it up. An icy sensation cloaks Tristan, making him shiver in the summer climate, and he ponders if it is the ghost of Logan McCall. 

You might have been hoping Cait and Brayden had been the killers, and the police let them go in the end, but statistically the villain is always killed by another villain. Still, I know I told such a grim and desolate tale, and I figured you deserved some satisfaction…and closure.