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That night still haunts my dreams.
In dreams, Mom and Dad would walk over to Olivia’s hospital bed and apologize to her for being the reason why she ended up there. They promise that they’ll do better than before, that they’ll start to give a shit about their daughters instead of worrying about how much money we cost them. That they’ll do whatever it takes to keep us all together as a happy family instead of asking when we’ll start doing our fair share.
Then I wake up to reality, where they did the exact opposite, and I have to remind myself that it’s just a dream.
And dreams always die.
“Stop it, Emily,” I tell myself. “You’re doing nobody any favors.”
Slowly, I make my way to the kitchen, and I’m hit by the smell of decay. The sink is full of dirty dishes—unwashed since her death. There’s a small pot with water stagnating in it, and the bottom is all rusted out.
Weird.
Olivia was never much of a cook, which makes the number of dishes feel wrong.
Either she left them for days without caring, or she was feeding multiple people.
She told me she lived alone.The apartment is tiny, to put it politely. There aren’t many places to search. With a wary hand, I nudge her bedroom door inward. My hand hesitates when it makes contact with the rough wooden surface. My eyes refuse to look ahead, preferring to focus on the cheap vinyl tiles lining the floor.
Not yet. I can’t yet.
But I must.
The door swings and bounces off something behind it—a purple suitcase with frayed corners. I know if I try to extend the handle, it will jam before it reaches full length. Dangling off the handle is a bright pink Hello Kitty bag tag, the same as mine.
The same one as Konstantin’s.
And just like that, my heart feels a pang of regret. But at what, I’m not sure anymore.
I look at the bright pink bag tag and I can still hear Mom’s words in my head when the door slammed shut behind Olivia years ago.
We should thank her for throwing out the trash for us. Let that junkie be a problem for whatever cop finds her. Maybe she’ll finally do something good when she’s dead.
Instinctively, my hand reaches up to my cheek. I can feel the sting of where Mom’s palm struck me all those years ago after Olivia had left. I can still hear Dad bellowing that if I ever talked back like that again, he’d teach me a lesson I wouldn’t ever forget.
Mom’s words have come true in the worst possible way.
And I’m the one who has to pick up the pieces.
Sighing, I force myself to look at the twin bed with its disheveled green blankets and checkered sheets. There should be crime scene tape here. NYPD clearly decided that there was no need.
In the autopsy report they handed me, it said that my sister’s death was a suicide by heroin overdose.
And like my parents, they were quick to judge who she was.
But the more I look in the apartment, the less I believe that she overdosed.
So far, I haven’t seen a single needle. There are also no elastic bands, no burnt spoons, and certainly no tiny dime bags.
In short, I haven’t seen a damn thing to support that shewasusing.
I look back at the bed. Even though the stark yellow tape isn’t here, I know in my heart that this is where she died. I swear I can still see the impression on the mattress from where her body was.
It’s so damn easy to imagine herhere.
Suddenly my phone buzzes in my hand. I look down, expecting something from Mom. But instead, I see a text from Nadia. When I open it, another comes in.
Nadia: HOLY SHIT!!
