A Closer Look

A plain cardboard box thumped onto Saige’s desk. A cold case. Two dead years ago, the files said. Ten teen girls vanished in the Los Padres trees and nobody heard a whisper since. She cracked the disc. Low light in a shaky room. Shyla squints at the lens, swears, then drops onto the bed next to Gianna. They peel off shirts like old skin. Shyla’s mouth presses hard between Gianna’s legs; every wet sound arrives magnified, hungry. Gianna laughs, grinds, takes the girl’s hair in her fists, hips bucking. They never look up to the darkness at the window, never hear the tripod set behind thin curtains. Shyla licks harder, two fingers buried, Gianna spits between clenched teeth and shakes apart. Both of them came without knowing they’d already signed the last tape either of them would ever make.