The Lights Are Brighter

CHAPTER 1

Phoebe McGee had had a relatively normal childhood. She wasn’t popular, but she had a lot good friends. Her parents were divorced for as long as she could remember, but they kept it amicable. She grew up in a small home with her mother on a cul de sac in a suburb outside Buffalo, NY. She had five sets of neighbors, two of which had children who were close to her age; two were her childhood best friends: *Aleila and Matty*.

Aleila was the kind of friend that every young girl needed: honest, supportive, trustworthy, and absolutely gorgeous. Aleila wanted to be a doctor, but her parents didn’t think that was realistic. She was exactly Phoebe’s age, and they spent most nights together, swapping houses. *Matty was a boy a few years younger than them, and he began as an annoyance*. By the time the girls were ten years old, they couldn’t imagine going out to play without him.

When Phoebe was nine, her father moved to New York City. Her parents had discussed that she would spend alternating holidays and one month of summer vacation with him. Although she loved her time with her father, the number of these visits dwindled through the years.

School treated her relatively well. She was bullied, but not tortured as some others were. She was smart, athletic, and artistic, but not adept enough at any of her *things* to be known for it. Her self esteem was always pretty high. Her preteen years had been happy, fulfilling even. Then, in the eighth grade, Aleila was said to have committed suicide. That was when Phoebe stopped going out and started writing. She never truly believed that Aleila would kill herself; Phoebe believed that she had disappeared.

> she, whose grave was adorned

> with flowers and light

> she, who had always seemed

> so much like a goddess

> now, she tried to speak

> and her shaky voice

> somehow

> missed their ears

> the cemetery

> was dimly lit by the moon, yet

> none of her sisters could see her when she'd seen the

> reality of her situation

> she began to weep

> her beloved circle, broken

> torn apart

Her first poem was about Aleila, and so were the next few hundred. *There were a few that highlighted her feelings of guilt for abandoning Matty after Aleila passed*. She couldn’t bring herself to be near him without feeling Aleila’s arm cross through her own, and hearing Aleila’s tinkling giggle float past her ears. She thought about Matty often, but she never reached out.

*High school was a drag*. It was all Phoebe could do to keep herself from failing; she had lost motivation. She wrote constantly, but she never wrote for assignments. She had no idea what she wanted to do with her life, but she knew she needed to leave town after high school and escape the ghost of her best friend and former life. So, that’s what she did.

Senior year she moved out of her mother’s home to seek a clearer space;she took a break from her writing and dedicated herself to her schoolwork. She studied even when she thought she didn’t need need to; she turned in any and all extra credit assignments; she got a near perfect score on her SATs. Then, she applied to every university in the state of New York.

It was mid-morning when she received her acceptance letter to Cornell, she was shocked. She would never forget the day; March 19, 2023. With her record, she hadn’t expected any Ivy League university to accept her, let alone offer her a hefty scholarship. It was a life-changing moment.

She finally relaxed on her constant cramming and was able to study regularly, without being overwhelmed or giving up. It was like strolling though a daydream; teachers were proud, peers were jealous, parents were doting. In such a small town, this was a big deal. She spent the final five weeks preceding graduation packing up for her road trip to Cornell.

CHAPTER 2

At 2:27PM on April 9,2023, just 6 weeks shy of her 18th birthday, Phoebe received a heartbreaking phone call, “I never wanted to have to tell you this, dear, but your father, well, he’s suddenly died. The police, oh god.. honey, they found him in the street.” It was her Nana, whose voice was trembling and breaking through the phone. Phoebe fell to her knees and wailed. It had been a while since she had seen her father, but she thought he’d been doing well. *This perpetually expected news came as a forceful blow*.

Robert McGee’s funeral took place in Manhattan, his favorite of the boroughs. Phoebe had decided to take 3 weeks off from school for the 2 day event. She arrived in the city 3 days in advance; she spent the first with her Nanna and Mum: crying, holding hands, sharing memories, and discussing theories. The following two: in her hotel room at the Hilton, ordering room service and watching old movies.

The morning of the funeral was one of the toughest she’d ever faced. It was 4:47 when she woke up. The sun was just beginning to rise and there was a lot more noise than she was used to. She ordered hot chocolate and strawberry pancakes with whipped cream to her room while dressing. She selected an *enhancing* black lace lingerie, and then attempted to seduce the bellhop.

She answered the door in her lingerie and placed her index finger on the spritely young woman’s nearly flat chest. As Phoebe traced her sternum downward, the bellhop maintained hypnotizing eye contact and drew in one deep breath. “I’m workin’ here, miss,” she muttered before stepping back. In a brief moment of lucidity, Phoebe pulled away sharply and apologized.

The young woman pushed the cart into the room and paused; she locked eyes with Phoebe and stuttered, “I can see that you’re having hard times, miss, and I want you to know that you’re beautiful.” She pulled Phoebe in by the waist and kissed her, gently and passionately and lightly all at once. “I’ll have to be going now,” she said, and was gone in the blink of an eye with the soft click of the door shutting behind her. *Wow, that young lady could kiss*.

*Pretty in Pink* was playing on the tube tv in the hotel room; the crackling sound of worn speakers had always felt warm to Phoebe. She was lounged on a soft, cushiony, purple chaise in her black negligee, lazily picking at her overpriced breakfast. As the movie ended and the credits began to roll bye, Phoebe grabbed the remote and clicked the unit off. She had about an hour to spare before the services began. She carefully pulled out the long, silky black dress that she’d packed for today and slipped it over her head.

CHAPTER 3

She walked to the parlor from her hotel; it didn’t take long. She saw dozens of people standing outside: family, friends, people she knew, people she didn’t. Was she really prepared to hear all of their condolences? After all, they would mostly be directed at her since her parents had been split for so long. She put on a brave face and waltzed through the crowd, sharing “Hello”s and “Thank you”s on her way into the lobby.

Since he’d died of an overdose, Phoebe had expected her father to look relatively the same as when he was alive. She was wrong; what she say lying there in the casket couldn’t be her father, could it? *He was so pale and shallow, so sunken into himself*. He looked so much older than she remembered him.* God, how old was he? Forty-eight? No, forty-seven*. She was lost in his face, in her memories of his face: laughing, sighing, squinting at the sun, whistling from a block away, sleeping on her Nanas couch. He was always so happy. That couldn’t be her father.

A sharp, smooth whistle- her fathers whistle, definitely- echoed through the room, which then started to spin. Phoebe felt her breath leave her lungs before her she began to sob. She could feel her fathers embrace. She collapsed in front of his casket, unconscious.

CHAPTER 4

That was 4 years ago, and today Phoebe was graduating from Cornell University with a major in journalism and minor in creative writing. She was close to the top of her class, not that it really mattered to her. She wasn’t counting down for graduation; she was counting down for 3 days later- when she would board an airplane for the first time and ride it all the way across the country. Her mother couldn’t make it to her graduation, something about but tickets being too expensive. So, Phoebe drove to Buffalo to see her before leaving the state.

Her mother wasn’t exactly happy with her plan- or lack there of, and so Phoebe cut the visit short. The next 14 hours were spent between her car’s driver seat, which she spent way too much to send to LA, and a coach seat on a crowded plane. When she landed at LAX, she had $76.59 in her pocket, no bank account, one suitcase full of clothing, her 2006 Volkswagen Golf, and a backpack which contained her computer, her notebooks, and her portfolio. She had a smile on her face and butterflies in her belly as she drove towards the beach.

She found a parking lot that was right up against the sand and backed into a tucked away spot. She clicked on her interior light and opened the glove compartment, wondering- for the first time -if they’d have searched her car when they shipped it across the U.S. Apparently, they hadn’t, because her ganja and paraphernalia were safe and sound, just how she’d left them. *Thank the gods,* she slid some things out into her purse before exiting the car. She sauntered around it and heaved open the rusty hatchback. She put down the backseat and straightened out her blankets before lifting herself up into the back of the VW.

For the first time in her life, Phoebe packed up a bowl and smoked it outside, starting at the ocean, with no worries at all. *How glorious it is to be in a legal state.* She watched the wisps of smoke trail away, up towards the stars before disappearing. She sat there for a long time, just watching and listening to the waves crash against the shore. She’d made it; finally, she was sitting in California with nothing but time- to write.

> A warm, gentle breeze

> The smell of dark, salty seas

> Nobody to please

Even when it was mandated, when Phoebe wrote, it was always for pleasure. Her classes at Cornell were nothing short of fantastic, in the literary sense. Each and every word that she scribbled or typed was poured directly out of her soul. When it came to journalism, passion guided her decisions. She would only investigate cases that piqued her fancy, things that she would fully delve into. She believed that writing was the true window to the soul, regardless of the subject matter. A person could see ones deepest secrets and most hidden feelings through their musings on paper.

She sat there until she saw the sun creeping up behind her, writing bunches of short, sweet poems about the beach and the ocean and her newfound freedom. Eventually, she fell asleep in her hatchback, pen in hand with her glasses still on.

CHAPTER 5

When she awoke, it was past noon; she knew this because she could see the sun above the ocean. She was sore and groggy. Beneath her was a pile of crumpled up poems, some of which she didn’t even remember writing. There were people posted up all along the beach; technicolor umbrellas and towels dotted the shoreline.

A pair of sandy feet entered her line of vision. She followed them up long, toned calves to plump, tan thighs and a carved stomach, separated by a fuschia triangle. Two more small triangles barely holstered the girls abundant breast. Her face was nearly symmetrical, sharp bone structure complemented by soft curvature. They locked eyes; her eyes were the most familiar shade of amber. ”You lost, outta-town’r?” Phoebe simply gawked at her. The small, muscled woman waved a hand in front of her face. ”Are you alright, girlfriend?”

Phoebe drew in a sharp breath, ”Yeah, fine, thanks, ” she managed all in one mouthful. The goddess laughed, and it filled the spaces between Phoebe’s thoughts. She could swear that her best friend was standing before her, but that was impossible. Memories flooded her eyes and began to roll down her face in the form of tears.

The familiar stranger plopped down beside her and wiped her cheeks. Phoebe was confused, but it was comforting nonetheless. She leaned into the girl’s chest and let out a sob. ”Could you tell me.. What's your name?” she wavered. The stranger smiled warmly.

”Alya, and you are?”

*That couldn't be a coincidence.* She muttered, ”Phoebe.”

The young woman’s bubbly expression vanished hastily, and returned just as fast. She slid back onto the ground and then extended a hand to Phoebe, who wasn't sure whether or not to take it. She did.

CHAPTER 5

Alya, was a model, apparently, and had moved to LA as a teenager with her dream stringing her along. She was 23 now, same as Phoebe. She hadn't spoken to her parents in a long time, and preferred not to speak about them. *Did all of this make it seem like Aleila?* Momentarily, Phoebe considered the possibility, but decided that it was just a child's hopeful daydream.

“So, you’re a model?”

“Yeah, but I really want to be a doctor. Just using my face to pay my way through school.”

Phoebe just looked at her for a moment. “You amaze me.”

They went on a stroll along the shore. Alya pulled a cigarillo out from behind her ear and lit it; sure enough, it was a blunt. She skillfully French-inhaled before blowing the smoke past Phoebe’s nose and silently offering her the cigar. They chatted about philosophical things- like *why are we here* and *where do we belong*. It all felt so comfortable and effortless as if they’d known one another lifelong.

About an hour rolled by while they walked the shoreline before Phoebe realized, ”I’m never going to find my car.” Alya laughed; it brought goosebumps to Phoebe’s arms.

”It’s okay, we've been walking towards mine; I'll drive you back to yours.” She smiled, dazzling anyone within viewing distance. A moment later, Phoebe felt that she was walking alone. She spun around slowly and saw Alya stopped at a Ferrari. Phoebe had just walked past it, not even considering it an option, but as the lights flashed and Alya so familiarly slipped into the drivers seat, Phoebe realized she was with someone far more famous than she had known.

They rolled down the street with the canvas roof down, Britney Spears roaring through the speakers. Alya, unlike Phoebe, drove as if it were second nature. Her hands barely grazed the steering wheel; her eyes darted from the road to her mirrors; her left leg was bent with her foot up on her seat. It seemed so effortless, so natural. Phoebe watched her, hypnotized.

CHAPTER 6

They parted ways at Phoebe’s car. She floated to a motel, imagining the next time she would see Alya. She somehow made it to her new room and sunk into her bed. The sun was setting outside her window when her eyes slid closed.

She dreamed of Alya. The two young women danced on clouds while fireworks and flowers exploded around them. Laughter and EDM filled the heavens; they were the only ones there. Happy as could be.

As soon as Phoebe opened her eyes she was reaching for a pen; she had to work with the inspiration from the dream before it faded away. The words flowed so naturally, as if they been written for her.

> She tantalizes you with

> Amber eyes

> Pools of honey

> Fall into them

> Envelop yourself in

> Gold

> Her aura warm

> As a familiar

> Embrace

> Love letters written

> On her lips

She spent that afternoon writing on her laptop in a coffee shop, where she was approaches by a middle-aged woman. Her name was Tress Gillford, and she owned a women only strip club. She struck up a conversation with Phoebe about her writing, eventually offering a job. Phoebe thought about it for a moment. Flexible hours, good pay, high tips, no men.. What could go wrong?

She was to start that night. She went straight home from the coffee shop, put on her sexiest lingerie under some sweats, and set on her way. The environment of the club wasn’t exactly what she’d expected, but it was lively, and nothing like she’d ever experienced. Her first night was uneventful, but fun.

The next morning, something told her to click on the motel television and watch the news. Perhaps it was the same thing that had helped her to wake up so much earlier than usual. The weather forecast was on. Phoebe left the room to brush her teeth. When she returned, she was shocked to see Alya’s face flashing on the television screen with the caption ”Model Missing in LA”.

She felt the illusion crash to pieces around her. Los Angeles wasn’t going to be a fantasy, after all. The journalist in her took over. She drove to the police station, sniper-focused on finding Alya. She was trying to remember everything from the previous night with Alya; *Were there any clues? Any hints that she was in danger?*

She snapped back to attention when she ran into a fire hydrant in front of the police station. She saw a sheriff walking towards her and slammed her forehead into her steering wheel. She pushed the button on her door that lowered her window. “Are you alright ma’am?”

“Actually, officer, no; I’m not,” she wavered. “I spent the night with this model last night, Alya, and I woke up this morning to find that she’s missing. I’m just so scared and confused.”

His eyes widened with either surprise or excitement, *maybe both*, and he “invited” her into the station. This meeting was not going as Phoebe had planned. She might even now be a suspect. *How was she going to investigate without looking suspicious?* She followed him through the station to a desk and sat in a too-soft chair.

”Im Sheriff Cobalt, and you are?” He looked her up and down, studying her body language. She was nervous, but there was something else too.

”Phoebe, sir. Phoebe McGee,” she made eye contact with him, and tried to look brave. His eyes were an abyss of dark blue: cobalt. They were stern and unforgiving; years of scowling had left valleys tracing away from them. She looked back to her lap.

He took his hat off and sat on the edge of his desk. When he exhaled, the smell of coffee and tobacco swept past her. He cleared his throat, and Phoebe looked up at him.

”So, Miss McGee, tell me about your relationship with Alya Drawn.” He closely studied her reaction to the request. She shifted her weight from one hip to the other and crossed her legs; she looked around the room and her nose twitched.

”I wouldn't call it a relationship, really.” She recalled the previous afternoon and evening in detail. Cobalt stared her down, unflinching. He sighed deeply, and walked around his desk to shuffle through his paperwork.

”As I thought, ” he bellowed, ”you were the last person to see Ms. Drawn alive. This makes you a suspect, though you don't seem to have any motive or prior connection; we will need to look into you.”

Phoebe made eye contact with the sheriff. She knew she had nothing to hide. ”I understand, sir. Thank you for informing me.”

”There is, also, the matter of the fire hydrant. That's going to be a ticket with a fine,” he sighed, ”for reckless driving.”

CHAPTER 7

The next morning, a loud banging woke Phoebe; it was a knock. She trudged to the door in her ”nightgown” (a very baggy tee shirt) and yawned at the detectives on the porch through the glass in her front door. She opened the door and smiled warmly, her eyes still puffy from sleep.

”Good morning sirs, ma'am, ” she chittered. There were three men and a woman. Two of the men appeared to be Hispanic and the other was white. The woman accompanying them was black. They seemed to be close in age, but with varying degrees of wear.

”Good afternoon, Ms. McGee, ” sighed the woman. It appeared she was the alpha; the men all stood around and behind her, lips pursed tightly and eyes on the back of her head. ”We’ll be coming in, now.” This was going to be tough.

”Is there anything I can get you, officers? Coffee?” Phoebe offered desperately, rummaging through her cupboard for a mug.

”Detectives,” the siren corrected, ”and no, we won't be needing anything from you…. aside from answers.” Phoebe made her coffee as she watched the detectives enter her small apartment. The parlor felt cramped with 5 people in it.

Phoebe did not waver. She'd been expecting this. ”Alright, detectives. I assume this about Alya, ” she looked down, solemnly. Just the mental image of Alya’s tan, freckled face made her well up.

”Yes, Ms, McGee. We would like to ask you some questions about the murder of Alya Drawn.”

The mug fell from Phoebe’s hand, shattering with a clank against the linoleum. ”Murder?” she gasped. ”I thought this was a kidnapping?”

The detective looked away, pensively. ”Yeah, we thought so too. That is, till we found some of the body.”

”Some of the body?”

One of the Hispanic men spoke now, his mouth filled with gravel. ”She was missing her face, and everything below the waist. Weren't sure it was her before DNA came back.”

It took Phoebe a moment to process this information; when she had, she vomited. The puke splashed up from the floor onto the shoes of the lady detective, who seemed more than annoyed.

”I'm so sorry, ” she cried. ”Allow me to clean this up.” As Phoebe left the room for cleaning supplies, she heard the detectives begin to whisper, but couldn't make out what they were saying. The image of Alya’s dismembered body flashed in her mind over and over. Could she really have something to do with this?

She returned with paper towels, a mop, and a bucket of cleaning solution. The detectives stood over her and asked her questions while she cleaned. She didn’t know anything about Alya, and she’s only just arrived in the state. They found that there was no information to be had here.

They left nearly as rudely as they'd come in, leaving a discomfort in the air. Phoebe continued cleaning her own vomit in solitude, allowing her mind to wander. How was she going to pay that fine? She needed a job. She took a shower and got dressed for job hunting.

She topped off an all black outfit with a scarlet blazer and hit the town. After stopping into several businesses, all of whom informed her that she ought to be applying online, she decided to go to the bar instead.

The only bar around was a strip club called Naughty Nancy’s. She entered hesitantly, and was greeted warmly by a large, hairy man in leopard spandex. “Welcome Darling, I am Mr. Nancy.” He embraced her deeply, lifting her off the ground. Phoebe introduced herself.

“You need a job, Ms. Phoebe, I can see this. How would you like to strip?”

She looked him up and down to make sure he was serious. It was hard to tell when looking at such a silly man, but she decided he was. “I came here to drink, Nancy.”

“Buh-buh, it’s Mr. Nancy. How about you drink and strip? Start tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she shrugged. Phoebe took a seat at the bar next to a woman in a too-tight purple skirt-suit. The woman looked to the bartender, “Two Negroni’s, doll.” She slid one to Phoebe. “I’m Pepper, and I overheard you’ll be working here. Get used to me, I’m a regular.” Phoebe chuckled, sipped the cocktail, and smiles at Pepper.

“Phoebe, nice to meet you. I hope I’ll be seeing your face more often.”