Get Out If You Can

Matt | Photobomb

"What's that?" I ask, as I take in the book in Alison's hands. My, it doesn't look like a normal book — normal books don't usually have skulls on their covers. It looks more like a medieval witchcraft handbook.

"Photo album," she says, waiting for Emilie and Diego — who stays a safe distance away and keeps his head lowered — to hunch down on either side of her.

"Okay, I'll open it now," she says, slowly lifting up the black cover by the edge of the book.

It is a photo album, and it looks like a horribly old one. The first picture we see isn't in color.

I lean forward to examine the picture, as I can't really make out who it is from a distance. It's a girl all right, and she looks kinda familiar...

Holy shit.

***

It's Emilie. With her hand around another girl that's unmistakably Caitlyn Tejada.

"What the hell?" I say, looking at Emilie. Her bangs are haywire, blonde hair flying in all directions, and her lips are slightly parted. She's mumbling words no one can hear, and she looks — more terrified than surprised.

She doesn't answer me. Instead, she reaches over and strokes the border of the battered picture with a thin, pale finger.

Like she doesn't believe that picture could ever have been real.

"What is this?" I repeat, glancing at her.

"I don't know," she says, still tracing the border of the picture.

"I didn't know anyone still had this picture."

"This is kinda alarming, you know?" Diego says, a hint of impatience crawling into his tone. He glances at a grandfather clock somewhere at the end of the hallway, and I immediately realize what he's playing at. Time's running out.

"Emilie," I say, "look, just tell us whatever we need to know, and make it quick, okay? We've got a little less that eight hours left." I gesture at the wall to show them I'm right about that, and I feel Emilie's breath go shallow.

"Okay, so, tout d'abord," she begins, and Hunter grunts something that sounds like 'English, please.' Emilie hears, and shoots him a dirty look. But she continues in pure English nevertheless. To be honest, I don't particularly mind it when she uses French. It's a pretty language. She speaks it well, too. Like, of course she does, she's French.

"This is not a fake," she says, looking at each one of us. "This is real. I was friends with her a while ago, so we used to go to parties and that sort of thing. But the funny thing is this," she says, pausing to push back her bangs. "We never took pictures together," she says, her voice trembling. "Never. Caitlyn didn't like that. But this picture was different. Weird, even."

"Like what?" I ask, and she breaks eye contact once more. I think that's a hard thing to maintain when you're talking about self-deprecating stuff.

"She pulled me in for this one," Emilie says, head still lowered. "And at this particular party we were hardly...friends."

She says the word like it's poison.

Maybe it is, I don't know. I've never really had friends.

"She pulled you in for this one?" Alison asks, studying the picture. "Like how? Just pulled you in the frame of the camera?"

"Yeah," Emilie says, slowly looking up. "I didn't understand why. I haven't understood."

"Maybe this is just a collection of pictures that have her in it?" Hunter suggests, leaning over to look at the rest of the pictures. "Turn the page, then we'll know."