Notes on an Execution

Lavender knew his body so well, it was like she had become a part of it—she felt silly now, remembering her thoughts of the highway. Ansel and the baby were both crying, panicked, but when Lavender reached for them, her whole body smarted, a series of wounds she had not yet cataloged, her mouth a sandy pool of blood and grit. “Ansel,” Lavender croaked. The sludge of police work felt bearable, through this lens: a love affair between herself and the truth. After reviewing the case and issuing another cryptic warning, the superintendent finally took his leave—when he had gone, the room seemed to deflate with his absence.