Picture a gloomy Friday at precisely midnight. Picture the roads, full of people going home, going out, and just generally just going. Picture the pubs, steamy and full of drunken antics. Picture the clubs, people moving as one to a song they don't know. Picture the canyon, deserted, usually, but not tonight.
Picture Lori Kaye, a girl with an average height and average looks. You wouldn't recognise her stood at the top of the canyon on a Friday night. You wouldn't recognise anyone.
Picture Lori's brother, the boy with a note in his pocket from Lori. Lori's brother has just come from the pub, running wildly and screaming for help. He knows where Lori is.
Picture Brady, one of the many boys behind wheels that night. Picture Brady's steering: wonky. His reactions: slow.
Picture the police sirens, followed by the ambulance sirens, then the phone ringing in a dark house. Picture the mother, stood in her dressing gown, being called to hospital. Picture Lori, still stood oblivious on the edge of the canyon. Picture the tyre marks on the tarmac, but no car. No witness. No criminal.
Picture Brady, with blood on his car. The human manifestation of guilt.
[ guilt ] [ sunflight ]
