It’s a warm late spring evening. I’m wearing a blue sundress patterned with flowers and doves. My legs are freshly shaved, and my lips are painted a shade that’s much too bright for my complexion. I squint against the golden hour sun as it gleams through the van’s windshield and push up my glasses as they begin to slide down my nose. My boyfriend, Alan, is driving. We’re on a date—a rare occasion, since I live on the other side of the state and only get to see him every six weeks or so.
There’s also a dead body in the back seat.
RJ Aurand 