Asa is an unwilling sensitive with a fear of mirrors and anything reflective.
Amy is an unwitting empath.
Together they are responsible for murder.
THE SHIPPY SIBLINGS are rarely alone, despite living as secluded orphans on the remains of...
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"I DON'T THINK THIS is a good idea."
My voice cracked like old leather, and I cleared my throat, desperate for water or new vocal cords—maybe a new life. Beside me, Amy hunched over in the passenger seat, her head deep in her cupped hands, elbows pushing divots into her thighs. My fingernails dug into the worn rubber coating on the steering wheel, finding the plastic core underneath.
"We agreed. We need an alibi," Amy said. And she was right. We had. Ankle deep in silt, fighting to erase the snapshot of our mother's ghost emboldened behind my eyelids, I would have agreed to anything.
But I kept all of those...thoughts to myself.
Amy continued, "Someone has to see us. Anywhere but there."
I let my gaze drift out the windshield into the crowded SuperSavers parking lot. The parking spots, divided by faded white lines, were color-coded in golds and browns. Makes and models from years past sat empty in the sunshine, waiting to welcome their trusty homemakers and lunchtime adventurers with sweaty interiors.
"Okay...okay...how should we do this?"
Amy sat up straight. Her face was expressionless. Her mouth was set plainly, indifferent. I doubted she would flinch if I stuck my fingers into her blank eyes and scooped.
"We'll flip for it," she said. "Heads: I go in, and you stand out by the van. Tails: you go into the store, and I'll stand outside."
It all seemed so casual, so reasonable, so simple. I couldn't disagree. If people saw us in public, no one would connect the rotted corpse along the creek bed to the Shippys. No one would suspect a crime because we'd committed nothing worse than shopping for groceries without coupons. I uncurled my stiff fingers and rubbed my hands together. The friction stung my dry palms. I was still alive, then.
The numbness was finally melting.
Amy had her infernal coin on her thumb, tucked and balanced against her fist. "Ready?"
I wasn't, but I nodded on cue.
"Call it," Amy said and flicked her thumb.
I heard my voice whisper, "Tails," as the quarter somersaulted, one elegant flash of silver at its peak. Afternoon light knocked on the windshield at the right angle, and I saw our reflections splattered behind the Barber's arc. The Shadow behind me darted. The semblance of an arm reached out and flicked the coin from its orbit. My stomach clenched. Amy snatched the coin mid-fall and slapped it, hidden, onto the back of her hand.
There was no reason even to look.
It was tails, sure as shit.
I don't remember leaving the van, but I must have because I suddenly looked up at the quick beep-beep of a car horn. The sun's glare on the chrome shocked my vision. I waved an apology and jogged to avoid the rest of the Cadillac's reversal; the soles on my sneakers peeled off the sticky tarmac with each stride.
