Ask Me If She Is Dead

I have a condition that forces me to tell the truth. Strictly speaking, I can only answer yes or no. Lying, for me, is about as possible as walking on the ceiling. My neurologist calls it compulsive veracity—a rare, post-traumatic tic born from a stubborn little hematoma that settled into my frontal lobe after an accident years ago. At Oakridge High, though, nobody uses medical terms. To my classmates, I’m just a human novelty, a parlor trick to pass the time between third-period algebra and lunch. “Am I the prettiest girl in our grade?” Yes. “Did I ace the chemistry midterm?” Yes. “Are you secretly in love with me?” Zach Reed, our varsity quarterback, asked me once with a smirk that took up half the hallway. “...Yes.” The whole hall had roared with laughter, Zach preening under his locker while my cheeks burned so hot they felt blistered. Other than humiliations like that, life remained predictably mundane. Until this morning’s homeroom. The first bell had already rung, but Sierra Hayes’s desk—front row, third seat, always smelling faintly of vanilla body spray—was still empty. Her best friend, Nina Bennett, twirled a highlighter around her thumb and tossed a casual joke across the aisle: “Where is she? Did she drop dead on the highway or something?” Before my brain could stop my throat, my vocal cords tightened. “Yes.” 1 The entire classroom went dead silent. Dozens of eyes locked onto me, wide and startled. I sat frozen behind my desk, my own chest seizing in sudden panic. Nina’s easy smirk curdled into instant disgust. “Who the hell are you cursing, Wendy?” I didn't answer. I couldn't. She rolled her eyes, her manicured nails digging into the edge of her desk. “Take it back. Right now.” I shook my head, my hand creeping up to touch my throat. It wasn't stubbornness; it was physiological paralysis. I tried forcing my mouth to form a different syllable—an apology, an excuse, a simple sorry—but my lips clamped shut like rusted iron. A couple of guys at the back, aware of my neurological paperwork, tried to smooth it over. “Chill, Nina, you know she’s got that brain thing.” “Yeah, the clinic signed off on it. She’s not doing it on purpose.” “Besides, it’s Sierra. She sleeps through her alarm three days out of five. Remember last week?” Nina hesitated, the anger in her shoulders softening just a fraction. It was true. Sierra had been battling a nasty sinus infection all week, and she loved hitting snooze until noon. Nina exhaled loudly, strutted across the linoleum, and leaned both palms on my desk. “Fine. I shouldn't have snapped,” she said, her tone begrudging. “I’m sorry. But you shouldn't throw bad karma around like that. Look, let’s reset. I’ll ask you again, and you just answer normal. She’s completely safe right now, right?” My jaw locked. A cold current rushed up my spine, forcing my lips apart. “No!” A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. Nina slammed both fists onto my desk, lunged forward, and seized the collar of my flannel shirt, yanking me half out of my chair. “Wendy Evans, you sick freak!” From across the room, Zach Reed shot out of his seat, his face dark with fury. “Is that really how you think of her?” “Seriously, Wendy!” someone else muttered. “You’ve known her since middle school. That’s vile.” A chorus of whispers rose around me, sharp and venomous. A cold sweat broke out along my hairline. None of them understood. Deep down, I didn't harbor a single shred of malice toward Sierra Hayes. She had been sweet to me when others weren't; she’d once picked up my scattered papers in the cafeteria while everyone else stepped over them. That answer hadn't been born of hate, or envy, or spite. My mouth had moved entirely on its own. Nina let go of my collar, sneering. “You just despise her, don’t you? You hate that everyone loves her.” I swallowed hard, looking straight into her angry brown eyes. “No.” A flicker of confusion crossed Nina’s face. She clearly expected a yes. “Then why are you saying she’s dead?” Silence. My throat remained locked. Nina swallowed, her bravado faltering as an eerie realization crept into the room. She began firing off questions, her voice dropping lower with each one. “Do you think Sierra is a good person?” “Yes.” “Are you jealous of her?” “No.” “Do you want her to be okay?” “Yes.” Nina traded a bewildered, unsettled glance with Zach. Zach stepped forward, his varsity jacket rustling in the stifling quiet, his jaw set so tightly the muscle twitched. “...Is she alive?” he whispered. The word ripped out of me before I could draw another breath: “No.” The classroom plunged into a terrifying stillness. Nina’s lower lip began to tremble. A grotesque, impossible thought seemed to dawn on everyone at once. Zach hurriedly yanked his iPhone from his pocket, his thumb shaking as he hit speed dial and put it on speaker. “The cellular customer you have reached is unavailable or out of service. Please try your call again later...” 2 The reception area of the Oakridge Police Department smelled of burnt drip coffee, damp coats, and industrial pine cleaner. Under the skeptical gaze of Detective Ray Mercer, Nina and Zach recounted every single beat of what had just happened in third-period homeroom, laying my laminated medical clearance forms right on his desk. I sat with my hands tucked between my knees, fingers knotting together until the knuckles turned white. Had my condition broken? Had some buried subconscious resentment towards Sierra corrupted my brain’s wiring without me knowing? Or... was Sierra genuinely gone? Even a fraction of a percent of that third possibility turned my stomach to lead. Over the past three years, I had occasionally indulged in late-night, juvenile fantasies: What if my involuntary honesty could crack an unsolved mystery? What if I were some kind of human polygraph destined to solve cold cases? But my neurologist had always laughed gently, bursting that bubble. “Wendy, your brain can only confirm truths already stored within your own perception. You can’t manifest omniscience. You only know what you know.” Yet somehow, my glitch seemed to have mutated. It had leaped over the boundaries of my own knowledge and anchored itself into reality. We didn't know what else to do. Three teenagers couldn't exactly scour the county looking for a potential killer. Walking into the precinct was the only sane move. Detective Mercer leaned back, his graying stubble catching the fluorescent glare. He looked at us the way seasoned cops look at high schoolers skipping class on a dare. “So let me get this straight,” Mercer said, tapping his pen. “You can only tell the truth. And your only vocabulary is yes or no?” I nodded. “Alright, kid. Let’s play a quick game. Did I have three cups of coffee before seven this morning?” “Yes.” “Did I eat a bagel for breakfast?” “No.” Mercer sat up a little straighter, his eyes narrowing. “Before my mother passed last winter, she left me three final sentences. Was one of them about hidden cash in the floorboards?” “No.” “Was she telling me she was proud of me?” “No.” “Did I just make all of that up?” “Yes.” The tip of Mercer’s ballpoint pen halted mid-air. His mother had died in a sudden car wreck on Interstate 80; she had arrived at the trauma bay already brain-dead, never uttering another word. That detail had never made the local paper. Only he and the attending ER physician knew. He stared at me for a long, heavy moment. Without a word, Mercer stood up, walked into the records archive behind his desk, and returned with a manila folder filled with mugshots and crime scene stills. He pointed to an autopsy photo from two years ago. “Did this man die of natural causes?” “No.” “Did this woman drown?” “No.” He pointed to a mugshot taken just seventy-two hours ago. “Is this guy the arsonist from the lumber yard fire?” “Yes.” Mercer’s expression stripped away every trace of condescension. He tested me against ten different files, ten different cold cases and open investigations. Every single answer landed dead-center on the classified case notes. The arsonist had only been booked three nights prior; not even the local press had the arrest report yet. Mercer slowly closed the folder. “You two,” he said, gesturing toward Nina and Zach. “Wait in the lobby.” He turned to me. “Wendy. Come with me to interview room two.” The door clicked shut behind us. Mercer pulled out a metal chair, sat down, and made a deliberate effort to soften the hardened lines around his eyes. “Whatever you’ve got going on in that head of yours, it’s not ordinary,” he said, leaning over the laminate table. “So tell me about this girl. Sierra Hayes. Is she really dead?” “Yes.” “Did it happen this morning?” “No.” “Last night?” “Yes.” “Was it an accident?” “No.” Mercer leaned in, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. “Did you kill her?” My chest tightened in panic. “...No.” 3 Mercer let out a short, quiet breath and patted the table. “Just eliminating suspects. Don’t sweat it.” I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Logically, I knew I hadn't touched Sierra, but being cornered in a windowless interrogation room under the stare of a homicide detective was enough to make anyone’s pulse skyrocket. He instructed me to stay put while he sent a cruiser out to cross-check the Hayes residence. Forty minutes later, Mercer shoved the door open, his jaw clenched, all earlier calm gone. “You were right,” he said, tossing his notebook onto the desk. “Sierra’s mother hasn't seen her since yesterday afternoon. She got a text around nine last night saying Sierra was crashing at a friend’s place after study group. The mother assumed it was Nina’s house. Traffic cams on Route 4 are blank, her cell signal vanished off the local tower at 9:43 PM, and none of her friends have seen her. We’re treating this as an active abduction or homicide.” I pressed my fingernails into my palms until they left crescent indents. Hearing it confirmed didn't bring any morbid satisfaction—only a cold, creeping horror. My condition had truly crossed over into something inexplicable. The precinct was already kicking into high gear. Detectives were shouting across cubicles, phones were ringing off the hook, and search warrants were being drafted. After giving my written statement, I gathered my backpack, preparing to return to school. “Hold on, Wendy,” Mercer called out, catching up to me by the double doors. He looked at me with an intense, calculated appraisal. “Your... gift. Would you be willing to help us narrow the search grid?” I hesitated for a second, then nodded firmly. Sierra was my classmate. She had defended me when people mocked my stuttering silence. And, frankly, skipping the rest of the school day felt like an easy trade if it meant finding her. “Deep breaths,” Mercer said, handing me a small paper cup of ice water. The jagged scar cutting across his left cheekbone made his attempt at a reassuring smile look faintly terrifying, but his eyes were completely earnest. He uncapped his pen. “Sierra Hayes is confirmed deceased, correct?” “Yes.” “Was it a robbery gone wrong?” “No.” “A domestic assault or jealousy?” “No.” He jotted notes at lightning speed. “Neither. Then our priority is locating the body before the weather turns. Let’s play twenty questions with the county map. Is she in an industrial park? A drainage ditch? Near her home? In the reservoir?” We went through dozens of possibilities. Every time Mercer threw out an abandoned warehouse, a creek bed, or a wooded trail, my mouth snapped shut on a flat no. Finally, Mercer paused, tapping the map with the back of his pen. “Is she on school grounds?” My jaw unlocked instantly. “Yes.” His brows shot up. “The woods behind the stadium? The boiler room? The dumpster enclosure?” I kept shaking my head, answering no to each. Mercer stared at the campus blueprint, running his finger down the perimeter. Almost out of ideas, he muttered, “Don't tell me... the athletic field?” “Yes.” Mercer grabbed his handheld radio off his tactical vest, pressing the talk button before he even cleared the doorway. “All units, route to Oakridge High School immediately. Bring K-9 and ground-penetrating radar. Roll out.” 4 When four police cruisers, sirens screaming, skidded onto the gravel lot beside the school’s administration building, the school board members were in the middle of their monthly budget meeting. Principal Gallagher practically tripped over his own loafers jogging out to the perimeter fence. “Detective! What on earth is happening? The parents are going to panic—is there an active threat?” Right behind him, Sierra’s mother stumbled out of an unmarked cruiser, sobbing hysterically into a crumpled tissue, supported by a victim advocate. “My baby! Where is my Sierra?!” Mercer ignored the principal, walking straight to where I stood beside the chain-link fence. “Is the body above ground?” he asked me softly. “No.” “Buried beneath the surface?” “...Yes.” My lip quivered. Never in my wildest nightmares had I imagined my curse would be used to locate the hidden grave of a girl who sat five feet away from me yesterday morning. Mercer turned toward his team, his voice slicing through the crisp autumn air. “Tear it up. Check every inch of turf, and bring the backhoe if we hit concrete.” For two agonizing hours, uniform officers, detectives, and two trained cadaver dogs combed the football field, the soccer pitch, and the running track. They peeled back sections of sod. They opened utility covers. They lowered fiber-optic cameras into the storm drains. Nothing. Not a trace of blood, no disturbed soil, no scent detected by the dogs. Mercer wiped the sweat from his forehead, walking over to me with visible irritation fraying his composure. “Wendy, think carefully. Is your brain misfiring? Are you dead certain it’s the athletic field?” I stood mute. He repeated the question twice more, and both times, my throat forced out the exact same affirmative answer. It kept pulling toward this campus. Suddenly, Nina’s voice cracked from behind the police tape. “Wait... what about the old practice annex?” Zach Reed stepped up beside her, his eyes brightening with sudden realization. “She’s right! The abandoned field behind the ridge. We used to sneak back there for pickup games when the main turf was reserved for varsity.” Mercer’s gaze snapped back to Principal Gallagher. “You told me you only had one athletic field.” Arthur nervously rubbed the back of his neck, sweating through his pastel dress shirt. “I—I forgot all about that lot! It hasn't been in regulation use for decades. It used to be part of an old church cemetery back in the fifties before the county rezoned it. The ground was cracked and overgrown, so last month we contracted a local crew to lay a concrete foundation for a new equipment storage shed. They’re nearly finished with the subfloor.” “They poured concrete?” Mercer barked. He didn't wait for an answer. Within sixty seconds, the entire task force had relocated over the ridge to the secluded, weed-choked clearing. The site was a mess of gravel, rebar, and freshly set foundation slabs. The construction crew had finished the perimeter pour late yesterday afternoon and was slated to erect the steel frame by the weekend. Mercer surveyed the vast, grey expanse of curing cement. He turned to the lead officer carrying an industrial sledgehammer. “Smash it open,” Mercer commanded. “All of it.” The pneumatic drills and sledgehammers tore into the grey stone, throwing up plumes of pale dust. Half an hour in, near the northwest corner where the cement had been poured deepest, a hollow crack echoed through the site. The concrete buckled, fell away in chalky chunks, and revealed a sickening swatch of pale, frozen flesh. 5 “We got a body!” an officer yelled, staggering back. “Jesus Christ... encased in the foundation!” A heavy shudder ran through the assembled crowd. “Perimeter secure! Everyone back behind the line!” Mercer roared, his sidearm unholstered as crime scene techs scrambled forward with evidence markers and yellow tape. A female corpse lay curled within the hollow of the broken slab. Whoever had done this had been thorough and vicious. The victim’s face had been systematically mutilated with deep, crisscrossing lacerations, rendering her features completely unrecognizable. A technician kneeling down with a flashlight hissed through his teeth: the skin on every single one of her fingertips had been filed down to raw, ruined meat. No face. No prints. A ghost in a concrete tomb. Mercer crouched beside the excavation, looked back over his shoulder at me, and asked in a strained voice, “Wendy... is this Sierra Hayes?” My throat constricted, the truth burning like acid on the way up. “Yes.” Mercer closed his eyes, exhaling a long, weary sigh. “Notify the coroner. Transport her to the morgue and get the family down for dental identification.” A few yards away, Nina collapsed to her knees, screaming Sierra’s name into the gravel. Zach slammed his fist against the chain-link fence so hard his knuckles tore open, his face contorted in raw agony. I walked over, reaching out a trembling hand to pat Zach’s shoulder in wordless sympathy. We began the grim walk back toward the main building to collect our belongings. And then, as we turned the corner of the west corridor, the world tilted on its axis. Standing beside the row of red lockers, smiling warmly with a textbook tucked under her arm, was Sierra Hayes. Completely unharmed. “There you guys are!” she chirped, waving a hand adorned with pastel pink nail polish. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Did they cancel fourth period?” My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird. I stumbled two paces back, crashing into the trophy case. Who was that? If she was standing there, laughing in the daylight... who was rotting beneath the concrete? Nina and Zach froze as if struck by lightning. Sierra tilted her head, her glossy ponytail swaying. “Why are you guys staring at me like that? Do I have something on my face?” Before anyone could stop her, Nina sprinted forward, colliding with Sierra in a frantic, suffocating hug. “It’s really you? You’re alive? Oh god, Sierra, you’re alive!” Sierra laughed, pushing Nina back with an amused, baffled expression. “Who else would I be? Seriously, what is going on? Did somebody pull a prank on you guys?” Wrong. Every survival instinct in my body screamed in unison: Everything about this is wrong. Could my neurological glitch have failed? Had my brain somehow suffered another stroke and fed me hallucinations? But there was a mutilated corpse under the practice field; that wasn't an illusion. “You’re not dead?” Nina sobbed, clinging to her sleeve. Sierra scoffed, rolling her eyes in classic high school fashion. “I’m standing right here, aren't I? Knock on wood, Nina, don't jinx me!” As I stood there, paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of the moment, Sierra’s eyes flicked over Nina’s shoulder and landed directly on me. The bubbly warmth vanished from her face, replaced by a sudden, venomous hostility. “Wendy,” she said, her voice dropping into an accusatory chill. “Why did you tell me to meet you behind the ridge last night? Why did you ambush me with a brick?” A murmur of horror rippled through the gathering crowd of students. Tears instantly welled in Sierra’s eyes, painting a picture of sheer, fragile betrayal. “What did I ever do to you? If I hadn't managed to kick you off and run for my life, I don't even want to think about what you would’ve done to me!” To prove her point, she reached up, pulled down the high collar of her knit sweater, and exposed the back of her neck. A massive, sickening hematoma—black, purple, and distinctly shaped like the corner of a paving stone—mottled her skin. A deafening silence fell over the hallway. No. I didn't do that. I never texted her. I never met her. I was home! Before I could back away, Zach Reed lunged forward with the terrifying speed of a linebacker, slamming me hard against the lockers and pinning my wrists to the cold metal. “It was you!” he spat, his eyes bulging with rage. “You psycho! You tried to murder her!” I thrashed against his grip, screaming the only truth my vocal cords would permit: “No!” “No!” Nobody was listening.