Life Is Short and Then You Die_First Encounters With Murder From Mystery Writers of America Read online

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  INTRODUCTION

  By Kelley Armstrong

  Adolescence is a time of firsts. First kiss. First love. First loss. First job. The first taste of adult responsibilities, and the first look at an independent life away from both the restrictions and the security of home.

  The joy and pain of firsts has always been one of the major appeals of young adult fiction. For teen readers, it reflects the turmoil in their daily lives. For adult readers, it takes them back to the rawness of those emotions and the confusion of struggling to cope with new experiences.

  Teens may also encounter death for the first time as relatives age. While they likely experienced a death in the family when they were younger, it feels different in adolescence. Teens are often stereotyped as acting invincible, yet they are intellectually aware they are indeed mortal, and when they experience death, it becomes real in a way that might have escaped them at an earlier age. It is the first death that may bring them face-to-face with their own mortality.

  For this collection, the authors have taken another approach to the concept of death and adolescent firsts. Here, they’ve explored the first time teens are faced with death, not as natural or accidental, but as intentional: the first time they encounter murder.

  While mystery is at the heart of these stories, many also deal with the intellectual and emotional impact of encountering murder. For each of these protagonists, it’s the first time they’ve been faced with the reality of homicide: Not only do we all die, but sometimes, we die at the hands of another human being. Each character reacts to this in their own way, giving the anthology a uniquely teen perspective on murder.

  In some of these stories, the teen is an unwitting witness to murder who feels called upon to solve the crime. In one, the teen is the victim herself, forced to cope with her own death and the cold fact that someone she loved murdered her. In others, they are caught up in the events that transpire, where keeping themselves alive is more important than solving a crime. In still others, they are the killer—driven by revenge or self-defense or something deeper and darker that makes them deem life disposable.

  While the subject may be murder, the tone of the stories varies. We do get the somber reflections on homicide that we might expect. We also get dark and twisted journeys into the minds of killers … and lighter fare, too, leavened with gallows wit and humor. The heart of any examination of death is emotion—the sheer breadth of emotions we can experience when faced with mortality. They all appear here—from grief to horror to confusion to the grim satisfaction of knowing that a criminal has been caught … but that does not undo the crime. The dead remain dead, leaving those around them to carry on.

  Ultimately, that is the core of this collection: carrying on. For the teens left behind, murder marks a turning point in their lives. They have experienced something horrific and—whether they are witness, killer, or victim—they are irrevocably changed. Some piece of childhood innocence is lost within these pages, and while we can grieve for that, we realize, too, that it is part of the inevitable process of growing up.

  Parents do not solve the crimes in these stories. As with any good young-adult narrative, it is the teen’s responsibility to act. They take a step away from the family home, marking yet another move toward independence, whether they are solving a crime or committing it. These teens are experiencing a trauma that may scar them, but they will move forward from it, forever changed by the experience of having encountered their first murder.

  FLOATER

  By Kelley Armstrong

  They’ve pulled a girl from the lake. She’s dead. There’s no doubt about that; her body’s so bloated I wince every time the diver touches her skin. A floater—that’s what my mom calls corpses like this. She’s investigated cases of people pulled from the lake, and when she comes home after the autopsies, she spends an hour in the shower.

  In seventh grade, I found out exactly what happens to a body submerged in water. A mouse body, that is. It was my idea of a cool science fair project. I should probably say that, at sixteen, the memory of that experiment horrifies me. It’d be a lie. I inherited my physician dad’s love of medicine and my detective mom’s love of problem-solving, along with their complete lack of squeamishness. Put those things in a blender, and you get Kylie Matheson, future coroner extraordinaire.

  Okay, maybe don’t put that in a blender. Even I’ll admit that’s kind of gross. Like the time Dad told us about emergency surgery on a guy who reached into a jammed food processor … And that’s enough of that. I learned long ago that most people don’t share my sense of fascination with the mysteries of the human body.

  From my seventh-grade experiment, I know what happens to a long-submerged body. Decomposition, of course, but it’s different underwater; and fresh water, full of bacteria, kicks things up a notch. You rot, and you bloat as your corpse gives off hydrogen sulfide, methane, and carbon dioxide, and eventually, that brings it to the surface, where you become … a floater.

  That’s what I’m looking down at from my spot on the cliff. The recovery team works right below me, but no one glances up. The dead girl lies on her stomach, and they’re discussing whether they should flip her over. I’m ready to jog down and tell them no, please don’t move her, or you’ll risk popping her skin. But the diver says exactly that, so I stay where I am.

  The body wears jeans and a T-shirt. One sneaker, too, the other gone. Those jeans and that shoe tell me she hadn’t been out for a swim.

  She has brown hair, the color darker than it would be when dry, and I’m trying to see how long it is. Long-ish? It’s impossible to tell with the way it’s sticking to her. It’s not short. I know that.

  Did I know her? That’s what I’m wondering, of course. West Mayfield isn’t exactly the big city. I almost certainly knew her.

  When I think of that, my heart hammers, reminding me this isn’t a science experiment, a dead mouse I found in a trap, fodder for my study. This is a person. A girl. A woman. Someone I probably—

  Deep breaths.

  A distant car door slams. Footsteps pound the path to the beach. I glance over to see Mom coming. I smile and rise from my crouch.

  That’s weird. She isn’t dressed for work, and Dad’s with her. She must have been called in while she was home for the day.

  I descend the hill, half-scampering, half-sliding. No one looks my way. They’re all watching my mother. One of the team says something urgent, and another pulls a tarp over the body. If they thought a floater would freak out Detective Matheson, they clearly don’t know my mother.

  I’m at the bottom of the hill. She’s running full out now, Dad doing the same behind her.
r />   “Mom?” I say.

  She doesn’t look my way. She’s racing toward the body on the beach.

  “Detective Matheson,” the diver says. “You really should—”

  “Is it her?”

  “The body is too—”

  “Is it her?” My mother’s voice rings out, loud and sharp.

  “Mom?” I say.

  She races right past me and drops to her knees beside the body. When Mom reaches for the tarp, the diver takes her hands, firmly.

  “I want to see her,” Mom says through her teeth.

  The diver lifts the tarp just enough to show the body’s shirt and arm. Mom touches the gold watch on the corpse’s wrist. I see the watch, and I stare at it. Then I lift my own wrist, and gold glints in the late-day.

  “Kylie!” Mom screams and falls onto the body.

  * * *

  I am the body on the beach. I am the floater.

  I am dead.

  Which is impossible because I’m right here, breathing and walking and talking. Except no one hears me. My feet leave no marks in the sand as I run to my mother. I crouch beside her, and Dad drops right on me—through me—as he reaches for her.

  I am dead.

  No, I’m dreaming that I’m dead. I must be. I haven’t been to the lake since …

  A memory snags, only to fall away, and I shake my head. It’s been weeks since I’ve been here.

  The last thing I remember is coming home from school with my boyfriend, Landon. I was in his car, and he was talking about …

  I can’t quite remember what he’d been talking about. He was driving me home and …

  The rest is gone.

  So how did I end up walking on the cliff? I’m here. Very clearly here, and yet as hard as I search my memory, I don’t remember coming to the lake, which means I must be dreaming. I’ve fallen asleep in Landon’s car and—

  * * *

  I’m in a hallway. I blink and look around. How did I get—?

  “No,” says a voice.

  I turn to see my fourteen-year-old brother sitting beside me. We’re sitting on black steel chairs, like the kind you find in a waiting room.

  I know this hall …

  I know these chairs …

  A murmured voice, then Will again, snapping, “I said no.”

  Dad sighs. He reaches a hand toward Will’s shoulder. Will throws it off with a violent shrug and scowls, his attention never leaving his cell phone.

  Dad crouches beside Will. Red rims his eyes. Splotches of dried water streak his glasses.

  Now I’m the one sighing, a perfect replica of my father. “Your glasses are dirty again, Dad.” I reach out. “Let me clean—”

  “Will?” Dad says. “I know—” His voice catches. “I know what you’re feeling.”

  “No, you don’t,” Will snaps again, still not looking up. “I’m fine.”

  “I do know,” Dad murmurs under his breath. “And you’re not.”

  He rumples Will’s hair before my brother can duck. Then Dad walks down the hall and opens a door.

  I know that door …

  I shake it off and turn to my brother. He’s still staring at his phone.

  I lean over to see the screen. It’s a text from me.

  Attached is a ticket, and under it, another text from me:

  He taps the movie ticket. It pops open. His finger hovers over the DELETE button. Then he clenches the phone tight, his head dropping. A sound rumbles from his throat—a horrible, strangled sound.

  “Hey,” I say, reaching for him. “What’s—”

  The door at the end of the hall slaps open. Someone shouts, “You can’t go in there!” but the thunder of running feet drowns her out. It’s Landon, with my two best friends—Mia and Elijah—right behind him.

  “Will?” Landon says. “Is it true? They found…”

  He trails off as Will pulls his heels up onto the chair and his head falls onto his knees. The other door opens. Dad steps out, Mom behind him.

  “Kylie?” Mia whispers.

  “She’s—” Dad’s voice catches again. “She’s gone.”

  Mia lets out a wail and starts to fall. Mom catches her, and they cling together, Mom comforting Mia, stroking her hair.

  “No,” Landon says. “It must be a mistake.” He pauses. “Are they sure it’s her? It’s been almost a week, and they said the body was in the water, and I remember Kylie saying that … that…” His face fills with horror, and he shakes it off. “They can’t be sure it’s her.”

  “They are,” Dad says.

  Behind him, the door opens into an office, and when I see that, I know where I am. Of course I know. I’ve spent countless hours working here. On that door is a plaque. Dr. Basra, Coroner. Through that office, another door. One that leads to the autopsy room, where the floater will lie on a steel table, a Y incision slicing her from shoulder to shoulder to navel.

  Cutting her? Cutting me. That body in there is mine. Lying on that cold table, my chest cut open.

  A dream. I’m dreaming. That’s why I’m not worried. Because I know, in my gut, that this is a nightmare. What else could it be?

  “Wh-what happened?” That’s Elijah, moving forward, his face as pale as his white T-shirt.

  “They found her in the lake,” Dad says.

  “Did she drown?” Elijah says. “She knows better than to swim alone. She can barely do a dog paddle.”

  Dad opens his mouth, but Landon cuts in with, “Did she…” He swallows hard. “Did she jump?”

  “What?” Elijah wheels on him. “Are you asking if Kylie killed herself?”

  “No, I—”

  “Is there some reason why she might?” Elijah bears down on him. “Something she was upset about, asshole?”

  “Guys!” Mia lunges between them. “Kylie is gone, and you two are doing this? She’s gone. Do you get that?” Her voice cracks. “She’s gone.”

  “She did drown,” my mother says, her own voice oddly monotone. “Dr. Basra just confirmed cause of death. Kylie drowned after a blow to the back of the head. Someone knocked her out and then left her in the lake to die.”

  Voices rise. So many voices. So many questions. I look toward Dr. Basra’s office.

  “Would you like to leave now, Kylie?” asks a voice at my shoulder.

  I turn sharply. A woman in a lab coat stands there.

  “Would you like to leave?” she says. “You’ve seen enough. More than you should have, really.”

  “I’d like to wake up, yes.”

  Her brown eyes soften. “This isn’t a dream. You know that.”

  I turn to my family and friends. Grief and anger and confusion whip through the air like a cyclone, yet I stand apart from it. I can see it. I cannot feel it.

  “That’s for the best,” the woman says, as if in answer to an unspoken question. “There’s so much to feel, and sometimes, it’s easier not to.”

  “What happened to me?”

  “You died.”

  I spin on her. “I was murdered. Who did it?”

  Her gaze slides past me to the others.

  “What?” I say. “If you’re seriously implying one of them murdered me—”

  “They didn’t mean to. That is, they didn’t set out to. They just failed to save you. Which is, I suppose, the same thing. It’s still murder.”

  Someone knocked her out and then left her in the lake to die.

  “Would you like to leave now?” the woman says.

  “You just told me that someone I love murdered me, and now you’re asking if I want to leave? Walk away without knowing who did it?”

  “I’ll take you back to the lake. Back to the shore before your mother arrived. I’ll come for you there, and you’ll forget all this.”

  “I don’t want to forget. I want to know who did it.”

  Her gaze meets mine. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I straighten and look her in the eye. “Yes.”


  She nods, and the hall goes dark.

  * * *

  I’m walking to the car with Landon. There’s a spring in my step, as there always is, even after nearly four months together. I met him this past summer, a few days after he moved to West Mayfield. I’d been working at the hospital, and Landon somehow ended up in the basement, cradling a broken wrist. I found him, wandering.

  “Doesn’t look fatal,” I said as I walked over.

  He gave a start and turned. I pointed at the coroner sign on Dr. Basra’s door. “You’re in the morgue. Unless you’re expecting that break to kill you…”

  He gave a soft, embarrassed laugh. “No, I just have a lousy sense of direction. I thought the guy said the emergency ward was down the stairs and left.”

  “Up the stairs and right. Come on. I’ll take you.”

  I escorted Landon to the ER and whisked him through triage. When my shift ended, I found him waiting out front to offer me a soda at the diner. By the end of summer, we were a couple, and four months later I still marveled at that. He isn’t the kind of guy I expected to end up with, certainly not for my first boyfriend. I’m a science geek, and he’s a jock. I want to be a coroner; he wants to take over his dad’s auto body business. He’s quiet and shy; I … am not. It shouldn’t work, but it does.

  That day, he’s even quieter than usual as we walk to his old Mustang. He restored it himself—he understands motors the way I understand the human heart. I’m chattering away, and I’m sure it looks as if he isn’t listening, but I know he is. In the beginning, I used to constantly stop myself, presuming his lack of response meant he wasn’t interested, but he always noticed and prodded me to continue.

  I’m talking about a symposium Dr. Basra is taking me to next month. It’s on forensic anthropology, and I’m as excited as if she were taking me to Disney World.

  I’m in the car with Landon, talking and then …

  It’s like the scene fast forwards, and suddenly, we’re in my driveway, and I’m slamming his car door as hard as I can before I stomp across the asphalt.