FICTION

Nobody—No Crime

A short story

Photo by Rafael Peier on Unsplash

Twenty-two-year-old Zoya stepped out of the car and into the cold winter air.

Pebbles crunched beneath her boots like peanuts.

She pulled the scarf over her mouth, breathing in the warm wool for comfort as she crossed the cemetery. Rows of tombstones stood beneath the gray-blue sky like silent generals standing watch.

After a few minutes of searching, she found the grave she was looking for.

Zoya knelt and placed a bouquet of roses, daisies, and wildflowers at its base.

The cold pricked at her lips. Instinctively, she reached into her pocket for her mint lip balm.

"Those taste horrible, you know."

Zoya stilled.

At the bemused voice behind her, she exhaled slowly.

An eighteen-year-old boy adjusted his glasses. His brown eyes twinkled with amusement, crooked curls framing his face. He stepped forward, hands tucked into his coat pockets, an easy smile on his face.

The wind blurred his features a little.

"And you know that how, may I ask?" Zoya quipped dryly.

The boy grinned, a crooked smile pulling at one side of his mouth.

"You did."

He laughed.

"You said it tasted like shit."

Zoya blinked.

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

"I absolutely did not."

The boy laughed harder.

"You absolutely did."

Zoya rolled her eyes.

Then her smile faded.

"How are Mom and Dad?"

The question hung between them like a stone.

Zoya averted her eyes.

"Coping."

He nodded.

"Ah..."

Silence settled between them.

"There was never a body found," Zoya added quietly.

She glanced at the tombstone.

"This is just a formality."

"Well..." the boy said, his eyes glinting mischievously. "I'd say it's pretty unlikely Mom and Dad named me Thomas without the 'h'."

Zoya blinked.

Then blinked again.

She glanced at the tombstone and groaned.

"Oh, for the love of—seriously?"

The boy laughed, bright as sunlight, warm as hot chocolate.

Then his eyes softened.

"It's been a year, sis."

Zoya stiffened.

"Nope."

She shook her head.

"We are not having this conversation."

"Come on." He nudged a shoulder against hers. "You've always been strong. Hell, you played God of War when you were eight."

He smiled gently.

"You'll get through this once you let go."

Zoya's jaw tightened.

Her eyes flashed.

She didn't laugh.

"Don't."

His smile faded.

His eyes turned sad.

"You can't even think my name. You can't say it."

"BECAUSE IT FEELS LIKE GIVING UP!"

The words tore out of her like a string snapping.

The boy blinked, surprised.

"Look!"

She gestured helplessly toward the tombstone.

"As far as I'm concerned, this is a rock!

An eighteen-year-old boy doesn't just disappear from his dorm."

The wind whipped sharply around them.

"I'll find you," she whispered.

"However long it takes."

The boy's smile turned sad.

"I know."

Her voice cracked.

"I miss you, Buddy."

His expression crumpled.

"I miss you too, Akka."

Her breath hitched.

"I know. I know."

She wiped at her eyes.

"Just hold on a little longer, okay?"

He nodded.

Then there was nothing but the wind.

Zoya stood among the graves.

A year ago, her brother had vanished.

Disappeared.

No body.

No answers.

No truth.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks and walked back to the car.

Her hands settled on the steering wheel.

She wasn't giving up.

The name carved into the tombstone wasn't the truth.

And whoever took her brother—

Well.

They had a year's head start.

And it wouldn't be enough.

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