The Whole Truth

Chapter One: Adele, 2011

The story was all over the news. Of course it was, with all those salacious details web sleuths liked to drool over.

Homicide at a sorority party during homecoming weekend. Rumblings about hazing leading the victim to be more susceptible to the killer's suggestions as she thought it was all part of the fun, the festivities, until it became obvious that being bound in a dirty basement wasn't part of the planned initiation.

It was believed that her screams were muffled by the stereo, as well as the antics of the guests, including Adele Theroux, not a member of the sorority but close friends with one of the senior girls. Around one hundred guests roamed throughout the halls and bedrooms, dancing and drinking, while one formerly eager initiate slowly bled to death in the basement.

As the sun rose, shining light on the wooden floors sticky with spilled Jell-O shots and unconscious, half-naked partygoers splayed on couches and window benches, Adele tiptoed to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water and snag a few tabs of ibuprofen the girls kept stocked in the cabinet next to some paper plates and bowls.

She popped the pills into her mouth and took a long swig of water, then sighed, rubbing her forehead. She glanced at the blinking clock above the stove, noting that it was before seven, much too early to be awake. Everyone else would sleep until noon and make their way to Waffle House for a hungover brunch of thick waffles drizzled in strawberry sauce and whipped cream. The thought made her clutch her stomach and turn back toward the sink in case she had to vomit.

Behind her, the door to the basement creaked open.

Adele glanced over her shoulder, not trusting herself to open her mouth in greeting in case last night's drinks were to rush up instead of a simple "hi". She saw a tallish man with floppy brown hair and a beard emerge from the basement. He froze, and Adele caught a flash of fear in his eyes. He was wearing a t-shirt splattered with something red and pulpy that reminded her of the strawberry sauce at the Waffle House. Nausea gripped her. That was all it took for her to whip her head back toward the sink and spew what was left of the stale beer and pita chips she'd been snacking on the night prior.

That moment of sickness was probably what saved her life.

The man crossed the kitchen in seconds, a blur in Adele's peripheral vision. She heard the backdoor open and the screen door bang shut, leaving her alone with her hangover.

She ran the water and scooped a few handfuls up to rinse her mouth. She spit and then washed up her mess, wondering who would have been hanging out in the basement at the butt crack of dawn.

Freshman year, there used to be a pool table down there, but a couple of guys from the next frat over lit it on fire, almost burning the whole place down. Although they were very apologetic the next day, they couldn't get out of the tribunal's punishment, which was for them to dismantle the whole thing with axes and carry it out to the back lawn in log sized pieces. They'd had a bonfire that night, and the culprits had to walk around serving beer with signs announcing their shameful act. In the end, it was a good excuse for another party.

Ever since then, there hadn't  been much of a reason for anyone to go down to the basement, except for maybe when the power went out and the girls played rock paper scissors to decide who would go down and reset the breaker. Because honestly it was pretty gross and kind of mildewy.

A shudder went through Adele then. She wasn't sure it was the post-sickness shivers or whether she was really too creeped out to go down by herself. Her pride dictated that she was a big girl and should be able to check it out without anyone else's help, so she crossed the cold linoleum in her bare feet.

The basement door was gaping open, beckoning her to cross the threshold.

A light gleamed from downstairs, which was actually scarier than darkness. Evidence that the man had been down there, doing something. He hadn't just drunkenly opened the wrong door, looking for the exit. No, he'd crept down these rotting wooden steps just as Adele was doing now. He'd crossed the floor and gotten far enough into the dank space to grope for the string to turn on the light, just a bare bulb that looked like it was about to blink out at any moment.

Adele swallowed, hovering a few steps from the bottom. It's not that she was afraid of what she might find, per se. She'd seen all the gore she could handle by filling her free time in adolescence with true crime books and scary movies: Saw, The Exorcist, every slasher imaginable.

No, this was more a feeling of dread, a sense that whatever she was about to find would change her in some fundamental way and she'd never go back to the halfway innocent girl she'd been before.

But that was probably all in her head. Rose, her best friend, was always saying she lived in a fantasy world. Adele was just embellishing the situation for her own imaginative need for drama.

She forced herself to take a few slow, deep breaths and then lowered her right foot onto the next step down. Then her left, then her right again, and then her left bare foot finally touched the freezing concrete floor of the basement.

She had to walk around a support beam to get a full view of the room. Her eyes skimmed over the pipes, the boxes of junk left there from years past. There were lawn signs from parties and pieces of old homecoming floats and a structure rigged up to look like a Hawaiian bar.

And there was another thing she didn't quite recognize laid out on a tarp in the middle of the basement. It took her a moment to recognize it was actually a girl.

Or what had been a girl.

She was lying facedown, bound with her hands behind her back. Her jean skirt and pink tank top were splattered with the pulpy mixture Adele had seen on the man's shirt only moments before. The outfit reminded her of what Marie Rodriguez, a pledge, had been wearing the night before. The poor girl had only been eighteen.

Adele felt something inside her break then, the piece of herself that thought of the world as a relatively safe place, of people as fundamentally good. She wouldn't call it innocence, exactly, the part of her that had broken away. This was something that no one should ever witness. Something too horrible to even contemplate. It was too aggressive, an assault on her eyes, her soul. It stole a piece of her humanity.

When the reporters asked, and they did, she had to say she didn't remember the details.

But she did.

Adele remembered the way the girl's forehead was smashed in. The rag that had been stuffed into her mouth. Her ripped earlobe bleeding from where the killer must have yanked her earring free.

Goddamnit.

Adele would always remember these things, whatever her name at that particular time might be.

It took her a long while to figure out just what the piece of herself was that had been lost.

Eventually she realized.

It was the light in her that had been stolen.

Now there was only darkness.