Someone Will Die

Chapter Seven

Foster Prescott - The Day after the Murder - 10:28 am

"What did you want to talk about?" Across the table, Pigman's voice shook. They squeezed the mug between their palms. From where he sat, Foster noted how slick and greasy their palms looked, sweat dripping down the sides of Pigman's face as they shivered. 

It was a cold morning, hellishly chilly, and the world slowed because of it. The little cafe smushed between two of the newer buildings on Evenfast's campus had the windows firmly closed but a draft leaked in through the cracks in the glass. A fire roared in the fireplace at the head of the almost empty room. Faraway enough from the counter not to burn the employees alive but large enough for heat to waver throughout the small space. 

Still, Foster had them sit by the window. The table pushed right up against the glass, the curtains held apart by little pins made to look like Christmas trees. He rested his elbow on the dusty wood, staring out the foggy glass as snow fell. 

On a regular day, at this time he would watch the hoards of people packing their things and piling into cars or racing to catch a train. The break officially started tomorrow but people always left early. No one left now. The campus guards blocked all the exits. Gossip fluttered through every ear and yet no one knew why.

Most people didn't know why. 

Foster had a few guesses. 

"Did he call you?"

"Did who call me?" Pigman stuttered. 

Foster rolled his lucky coin in his hand, wincing slightly from the tickle as it pricked the space between his fingers. He sat on the edge of his seat, leaning forward only a little so the smell of Pigman's coffee would nudge his nose. He never drank the stuff himself but he liked the warm, burnt smell of it. 

He liked it almost as much as the weight of the empty cafe in the morning. The tingle in his back as the woman behind the counter stared through him, waiting for the right moment to clear her throat and ask if he was going to order anything or if Pigman wanted more coffee after sitting idle for twenty minutes. He liked that it was so quiet. Almost silent except for the crackle and snap of the fire and the woman drumming her chipped nails on the tile countertop. The screech of the chair as Pigman wavered and settled. The whistle of the wind. 

It counted as white noise. It didn't bother his ears. Calming in comparison to the grating bullshit leaving Pigman's mouth.

"You know who." 

They shook their head frantically, thick neck wiggling with such force it looked as if it was about to twist off. "I swear, Fos. I haven't talked to him since yesterday! And even then it was just—"

Foster pressed a finger to his lips. "Don't shout."

"Sorry." They bowed their head like a child being scolded. "I just don't want you to get the wrong idea." The mug began to shake.

Foster couldn't fight the grin from sliding onto his face. Pigman's eyes flickered up to catch it and they sank low into their seat. "What idea would I get?"

"You know."

He waited. 

"You know."

With a groan, Foster stretched his arms out on the table. His sweater snagged on the splintering wood, his cheek brushing against the stretchy wool as he put his head down. "Hey Pigman, what do you and this table have in common?"

He couldn't see their face, but he imagined wide eyes and a mask of confusion.

A huff, a chair squeaking under shifting weight, the smell of stale coffee rolling over Foster in waves. What he hated, what he despised more than most people, was when the world around him changed and nothing felt out of place. The pathetic little cafe was still pathetic and little.  Evenfast still drowning under cold, wet air. Waking up earlier than he would have liked, shoving on the same clothes. Mundane. Normal. More than it had any right to be.