Page 14 of Morena
11. You.
IV.
Acrashfrombelowsnapped me out of sleep. I pushed myself up carefully, taking every step slowly, and crept toward the window. If someone was in the house, I couldn’t let them see me.
The noise cut off, but my gut told me not to trust the silence. I eased myself onto the frame and lowered down onto the dumpster, trying not to rattle the metal. I could hear steady footsteps approaching.
My pulse spiked. I slid into the dumpster, burying myself among the bags. The stench clung to my throat, but I held it in.
Fuck. Just what I needed.
The footsteps drew closer. A black trash bag dropped in, landing heavy across my legs. Whoever it was didn’t linger. I waited, holding my breath.
The bag had torn on the way down, jagged edges of something sharp pushing through—porcelain, maybe glass. The shards glinted faintly in the light. My hand brushed against the plastic, and when I tugged it free, my blood went cold.
Blue Levi’s. A white blouse. Daisies stitched along the collar.
The same clothes she wore in the club that night.
I pushed myself up just enough to peer over the edge, but the street was empty. Whoever dumped it was already gone.
This couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be a coincidence.
Clutching the bag to my chest, I climbed out of the dumpster and slipped back onto the street.
I knelt at the end of the street and pulled the bag fully open.
Inside, tangled with the clothes, was something wrapped in cloth, a notebook, and the white blouse with daisies at the collar. The fabric was stiff, mottled with bloodstains that had turned dark brown.
I lowered myself onto the filthy ground and opened the notebook. Some pages had been ripped out, but scribbles stayed; half-thoughts and strange lists. On the very first page, scrawled in slanted ink, were three notes:
Blue eyes.
Left-handed.
A small scar on the back.
My first thought was Carlos. It made sense. But he had been surprised when we found the basement. At least he looked surprised. My head was fogged and heavy, as though even thinking his name twisted the air.
I wanted answers about her. But I didn’t want to be dragged into this. Not like this. If anyone saw me with these things, I would be blamed. How could I ever explain that I knew exactly what she had worn the night she disappeared? That I found her clothes stuffed in a dumpster where I worked?
I leaned against the wall; the night was still too dark. My hands unwrapped the cloth, and inside was a shard of mirror, glinting faintly in the streetlight. I let it fall to the ground with a dull clink.
The feeling came instantly. That weight of being watched. The kind that crawls in the back of your skull. I scanned the street, but no one was there.
And in the corner of my eye, something shifted. The mirror shard, something moving inside it.
My heart pounded. I scrambled back across the dirt, chest heaving, breath stuttering. My eyes burned trying to look away. Something clamped around my foot.
I whipped my head down, but nothing was there. Nothing I could see. Still, pressure dragged me, and claws scraped across my leg, sharp enough to split skin. Hot blood slicked down my calf.
I screamed.
The sound tore from my throat, so loud and raw. A neighbor’s light flicked on in the house next door, the glow spilling across the yard. The beam struck the shard of glass. And just like that, the grip on my foot released.
I lay still, frozen on the ground, chest heaving. The neighbor’s window went dark again.
When the silence returned, I moved. My hands clawed at the dirt, tearing through soil until my nails split and grit filled the cuts. I dug a shallow pit, shoved the glass and her bloodstained clothes inside, and buried them.
