“Take her legs,” a voice said. I couldn’t tell who was speaking, and I had a hard time opening my eyes. Two arms were shoved under my armpits, dragging me through wet leaves.
“Think we can carry her to the bridge?” asked a different voice.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“What if someone sees us?”
“Don’t worry. No one’s out here but us.”
How could I be so stupid? If I hadn’t been curious about Elizabeth’s diary, I never would’ve agreed to meet Natalie in the first place. I’d gotten sloppy. If I’d been quicker to react, she wouldn’t have been holding my feet.
“Are you sure we should do this?” Natalie asked the man clutching me. “We don’t even know who she is.”
“Check her driver’s license when we get to the middle of the bridge.”
When did Natalie figure out I wasn’t Stephanie Williams of the Santa Cruz Sentinel? I’d pocketed a couple of business cards from the real Stephanie’s office on Monday. Even with my phone number written on the back, I knew passing her card off as mine would be a risk. I just didn’t think it could cost me my life.
When Natalie showed up a half hour late, the first thing I asked for was the diary, no small talk. I should have run away the moment she started grinning like an idiot.
But all that planning had made me overconfident. During our meeting, I clutched the Ruger hidden in my jacket pocket, knowing full well that if things spiraled out of control, all I’d have to do is squeeze the trigger and the bullet would do the work. But Natalie had an accomplice. That realization came too late, all thanks to a sharp blow to the back of my head. Chet Crawford was the last thing I saw before losing consciousness.
“Switch with me, babe,” Chet ordered. “Prop her up. I’ll grab her legs and throw her over.”
“What about her head?” asked Natalie, as she changed positions. “You hit her hard. She’s bleeding.”
“They’ll think she got it in the fall.”
“Fuck, she’s heavier than Lizzy.”
The mere mention of Elizabeth finally woke me up. I could feel Natalie’s bony hands digging into my armpits. Chet’s face loomed large in front of me. They were taking a breather. Hauling my limp body from the park bench all the way to the bridge must’ve been exhausting.
This was my chance.
I reached into my jacket pocket and fired four shots from my Ruger, striking Chet in the chest. He careened backward over the opposite guardrail and plummeted seventy feet to his death.
Unlike the other bridge where Elizabeth died, the guardrails here were only four feet high. They were next on the university’s list to be replaced.
“Chet!” Natalie screamed.
I slammed the back of my head into Natalie’s nose and heard a distinct crunch. She shrieked in pain, releasing me as she fell to the ground.
“Please don’t!” she screamed, her face covered in blood. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!”
I grabbed her by the collar with my gloved hands and dragged her back to where Chet went over. Natalie tried to fight back, but every arm-flail in her defense proved useless. When I reached the middle of the bridge, I let go of her collar and pointed my gun at her face. “Tell me what you did to Elizabeth.”
“It was an accident,” she said.
“You already said that. Explain.”
“After her doctor’s appointment, Elizabeth wandered around campus in a daze. That night, she texted me to come pick her up. She was too exhausted to walk back. I ignored her message, but Chet said we should go anyway. Chet and I — we’d started seeing each other again.”
“And then?”
“She was in a pretty fucked-up state of mind when we found her. She said some nasty things. I said some things. Chet got involved and then...”
“And then what?”
“She slipped. Like I said, it was an accident.”
“And yet, you and your boyfriend were perfectly willing to kill me tonight.”
She turned her head away from me. “We thought you were going to expose us! We just went a little crazy.”
“Me too.” I placed the muzzle of the Ruger to Natalie’s temple and fired. Her body slumped awkwardly against the guardrail.
I took my cell phone, a burner I’d bought at Target in Watsonville, and tossed it over the railing in Chet’s general direction. After placing the gun near Natalie’s body, I removed my leather gloves, revealing vinyl ones underneath, and put them on her hands. My right glove was likely coated in gunshot residue, and I’d already filed off the Ruger’s serial number. It was the perfect crime, although honestly, I didn’t care about getting caught. In fact, I’d never felt so alive.
On Sunday, I discovered that the pedestrian bridge where Elizabeth died had become a memorial — flowers, cards, and numerous trinkets had been left in her honor. Not being family, I didn’t know when her body would be laid to rest or where, so I brought a bag of donuts, a chocolate milk, and a Sunday newspaper for the both of us.
Bizarre Murder-Suicide Linked to Graduate Student’s Death
Stephanie Williams, Staff Writer
UC Santa Cruz police have confirmed that two graduate students were found dead on campus in an apparent murder-suicide on Friday night. The bodies were discovered near a pedestrian bridge located on campus. Officials confirmed that this is not the same bridge from which Elizabeth White reportedly fell, but would offer no further comment as that investigation remains ongoing.
The victims were male and female, both in their late twenties. Their identities have not been released.
Body of UC Santa Cruz Professor Found in Home
Julie Chan, Staff Writer
Christian Malory, a UC Santa Cruz literature professor, was found dead Saturday in his home on Escalona Drive. The cause of death has not been released.
Elizabeth White, whose death from an apparent fall on November 11 is still under investigation, was listed as one of Malory’s teaching assistants for the fall semester. Police would neither confirm nor deny a connection between the cases.
I couldn’t read another line. Elizabeth was more than just a teaching assistant to me. She was my mentor, my friend, and my one true love.
I was such a mess when I signed up for her discussion section in Professor Yamamura’s Pacific literature course. I’d escaped to UCSC after fleeing an abusive relationship back home. When I told her one of the novels had triggered my PTSD, Elizabeth was sympathetic. She represented everything that was kind and decent and wonderful about the world. When I heard she’d be teaching “Jane Austen and Popular Culture,” a course she’d designed herself, I immediately signed up the following semester. A few days before the final exam, Elizabeth invited me to her office to discuss my clunky, overlong term paper on the homoerotic overtones of Emma, Pride and Prejudice, and my all-time favorite, Mansfield Park. After she submitted final grades, we began spending more time together, although always in secret.
Over the Christmas holiday, we were inseparable. I told her about being a lonely, depressed teen, plagued by self-destructive impulses and suicidal ideation. She told me about being adopted and abandoned. About the racism she encountered — from colleagues, from professors, from people she’d dated.
“We can’t let them win,” she said. “We won’t let them win.”