Leo’s Dead.
I knew from the moment I opened the door of the car. She–They–were laying in the backseat, the dim interior lights spotlit a mouth coated with foam and vomit. I stood there in the doorway, the darkness of the night closing in on me. Beside me my wife gasped and let out one long sob. She said, “is that?!”
“Yeah, Leo.” My voice felt like it came form a place very far away,
“We have to call Jon. We have to call the police!”
I stood stock still, hand still on the door handle, other hand holding the backpack I’d been about to toss into the backseat when I saw them. I stared down at the body–clothed in a half open Hawaiian shirt and jean shorts. Their legs were as blue white as their face. Their shoes were missing. “What the hell is Leo doing here?”
“I’m calling the police.” My wife said.
That got me moving. “No wait!”
“What do you mean, wait?! Jon’s daughter is dead in our back seat!”
“Yeah, but how did they get here?!”
My wife was silent at that. We were standing beside the car in an empty parking lot three thousand miles away from home. Jon, out neighbor and friend, told us his daughter ran away a few days before we left for Victoria, BC. Now here they were in the back of a car we’d only rented a few hours ago. I said, “What the hell is Leo doing in the back of our car?”