𝔟𝔞𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔣𝔩𝔲𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 ; 𝔢. 𝔪𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔬𝔫

⁰³

My fingers felt like they were little pockets of air.

My knees felt like the joints had been thawed.

My brain. My heart. Both didn't feel real, like they were some hallucinatory systems in my body.

Chrissy was dead.

Of course, Callahan and Powell did an absolutely abominable job at hiding it from me. They seemed — mortified, like they had been provoked by a poltergeist for months.

And I know they were the ones who arrived at the scene and disclosed Chrissy's body. So it must've been — horrible. Absolutely dreadful.

And the worst part about it, I was so dismissive. So fucking dismissive. Oh, Chrissy is getting into some pseudonymous van? Must be her brother's. Chrissy never came? Must've went home, got tired.

I could've prevented this. Me. If I were to have let the precarious, embarrassingly melodramatic side of me show, she wouldn't have died.

But I'm an idiot. And I didn't.

The whole morning has been tarnished, to say the least. The police left after interrogating every last one of us who attended the party. Few other cheerleaders sat on the dilapidated sofas, bawling in their boyfriend's arms.

I couldn't think enough to bring myself to cry. I was numb, so very numb. And disassociating. Nothing felt real. Only the punitive blame I was driving on myself.

After awhile of everyone lamenting, Jason returned at last. He had certainly been crying. Weeping, more like. The puffy, irritation encompassing his eyes made that very clear. He was a quavering disaster. Disheveled hair. Tear-stained shirt. Trembling lips. But despite the melancholy clouding his eyes, one thing was very obvious in his pupils, which dilated like crazy.

Vengeance.

He slapped a piece of paper onto the table, his eyes ebbing between everyone in the room. "This freak — Eddie Munson, is who killed Chrissy."

My heart capsized when he said her name, but also kindled when I heard Eddie's.

Eddie Munson. Leader of the Hellfire Club — no, more like cult at Hawkins High. He was designated to graduate a keen two years ago. But he never did. He's twenty and still latched in the manacles of High School. He has some — band, dubbed 'Corroded Coffin' that he's almost as rhapsodic about as Hellfire. But mainly, he's known for his eccentricity. He's just so — animated.

I'm starting to wonder if that was Eddie's van, or if Eddie intercepted Chrissy's harmonic ride home and kidnapped her. Callahan finally professed that Chrissy's body was discovered in Eddie's trailer, after I had pleaded him to tell me more details.

Surely, it was Eddie. Had to be.

Eddie was idiosyncratic, yes. Everyone who knew him, even his friends, especially his friends, were very clement with that fact. But I could never see him as a murderer.

Jason's finger, cluttered with scars from fistfights, points to the lank figure of Eddie Munson in the picture he presented us. And there he was, my little brother. Accompanying Eddie in this photo. I'm certain that Jason will pester me for details on Eddie, when I really don't know any.

"Eddie Munson, you know, the freak." Jason hisses, glancing at everyone who had herded around the table. "He's the one who killed Chrissy."

Lucas looks at him, his face fretful. "Are we sure it was Eddie? The police never confirmed it, he's a suspect."

Jason's whole demeanor contorts, a more tranquil anger now. "Do you even care about our school, Sinclair? These are your cheerleaders. My girlfriend!"

"Ex-girlfriend." Chance specifies, strutting up, beer in hand.