Emmett waited for his pickup order at Cotija’s with his eyes on his phone, happily working through the
new comments his recent post had racked up. He acknowledged each of them with a like and a r eply, but
it was getting harder to find something new to say each time. There were so many, dozens, mostly from
strangers. Their abundance, and the strength of their support, overwhelmed him.
He’d been so overcome to hit one thousand followers a few days before that he’d posted an effusive,
teary-eyed thank-you to his stories. A troll had responded in his DMs, telling him to “quit overreacting,
1 K isn’t even that much” and “you got a ways to go before you can tag your posts #Weight Loss Inspo.”
Emmett blocked them and deleted his story at once. But apart from the occasional rude comment, the
online response was life-affirming.
The encouragement and congratulations—even the damn fire emojis— frequently reduced him to tears,
nourishing his soul in a way that made him realize just how much it had hungered for kindness.
Part of him felt guilty that he hadn’t achieved his weight loss naturally, the Obexity his shameful little
secret. But surely that was just his social conditioning. The point of losing weight was to be healthier,
happier, not to starve or kill himself doing backbreaking exercise. If he had cancer and a new treatment
had cured him overnight, he wouldn’t feel anything but relieved and grateful. Why should this be any
different?
An influx of customers drew Emmett’s gaze up from his phone. His eyes caught on a TV mounted in the
corner. The midday news was muted, but he recognized the face on the screen at once: the stiff mane of
honey-blond hair, the
protuberant eyes. It was the Future Makers woman who’d interviewed him months before. The chyron
read, LOCAL WOMAN MISSING SINCE FRIDAY. Missing? But Emmett had seen her, hadn’t he?
Through the open doorway, de ep in conversation with a colleague, while Emmett was leading SAT pr ep.
He remembered thinking how rude and disruptive it was. He still resented her for all the shit she’d said in
his interview.
He remembered an intense surge of anger, of wanting to hurt her like she’d hurt him... Then waking up
the next morning. His hands covered in blood. The guy behind the counter called Emmett’s order
number, but he wanted to leave the food and run. He felt unsafe in the presence of the woman’s headshot,
as if it might come alive and accuse him of a crime that only she could remember.
Appendix O—Interview Transcript
FD: I’m Frank Darrow, and it’s 5:36 p. m. on November 16, 2024. I’m on the phone with Chris
Truesdale—sorry, oughta let you do this part. Would you state your name, age, and occupation for me?
CT: Chris [inaudible]. Thirty-nine [inaudible]... commercial real estate. FD: And your relationship to the
participant? CT: [Inaudible] brother. FD: Hey, Chris, there’s a bit of background noise coming through. I
wonder if you might be able to— CT: Hold on... Will you watch them? Just watch them, please, Jayla,
fuck. [Munch’s Make Believe Band playing “Shake Your Groove Thing.” Arcade game sounds. A child
screaming.] All right, I’m outside. Can you hear me now?
FD: Much better. Sorry about all this when you’re trying to enjoy your Saturday. Sounds like I might’ve
caught you at a bad time. CT: Chuck E. Cheese. Five-year-old’s birthday party.
FD: The joys of parenthood, huh? CT: Put a gun in my mouth. FD: Okay. Well, I won’t take up too much
time. As I mentioned in my email, my firm’s been hired to investigate what happened with your
brother— CT: Half brother.
FD: Half brother, excuse me. CT: What do you want to know? FD: That’s what your sister said. Your
half sister, I mean. I met with her the other day and she took me through Emmett’s childhood, some of
the issues he had with his weight and his st epdad. She made it sound like Emmett was a pretty sweet,
sensitive kid. Nothing in his past that might suggest he was on a path to murder. I assume you’re gonna
tell me the same thing.
CT: I don’t know about murder, but sweet? FD: You disagree? CT: I didn’t know him growing up like
Abby did—they were at their mom’s most of the time—but when I was with him, he could be a little brat.
Every time I said one word to him he went running to Dad, trying to get me in trouble. Saying I hit him
when I barely touched him. He was so sensitive, he thought everything was an attack.
FD: It doesn’t sound like he was ever violent or malicious, though? CT: When he was angry, sure. He
had a temper. We all do in our family. But his was the kind you didn’t see coming. Most of the time he’d
play all quiet and shy, but
piss him off and he’d turn on a fucking dime. One time I grabbed a can of Pringles out of his hand like,
Hey, save some for the rest of us, and he fucking clawed the shit out of me.
FD: Clawed you? CT: Like a cat. Right down my arm. Had to wrap it in a towel to stop it bleeding. FD:
That kind of thing happened a lot? CT: When he got around that age. Eight or nine. Something changed
in him. He started fighting back. Enough that I stopped fucking with him so much.
FD: So you gave him a bit of a rough time. CT: I was a kid. FD: Did he ever hurt anyone else? CT: Tried
to, yeah. FD: Tell me about that. CT: Then I gotta go or my wife’s gonna blow a gasket.
FD: Understood. CT: So this was later. It must’ve been around 2016. I’d just started dating Jayla, and I
was telling her about my family, how I never really felt like I had one. My mom died when I was a baby,
then Abby and Emmett’s mom left when I was eleven and we didn’t really have uncles or cousins close
by. Dad was pretty much all I had, and he was a pretty messed-up dude. I was on good terms with Ab, but
I regretted not being closer to Emmett—I felt like I missed a chance to have that close brother bond all
my friends had. Jayla said, “Stop acting like it’s too late.
You want a relationship with your brother, be proactive. Reach out. Invite him to hang out or something.”
So I did. I took him out partying with me and my friends a few times. He’d just gotten out of this
relationship and was all d epressed—I figured it would help break him out of his shell.
FD: And one of these outings turned violent? CT: One time it got pretty close. It’s St. Patrick’s Day,
right, and we all go out to some club in the Gaslamp Quarter. We’re drinking, having a good time, I get a
little faded, and at some point I hear from Jayla’s friends that Emmett’s crushing on some dude. He’s
been watching him from the table all night, pounding Malibu and Diet Coke. [Snorts.] They’ve been
telling him, “Go talk to this guy,”
but he’s too scared. Emmett’s always been shy like that. Part of me feels like it’s my fault for giving him
such a hard time about his weight when we were kids. So I decide I’m gonna help him out, be his
wingman. I walk up to the guy and I say, “Hey, my brother’s into you.” Typical gay dude, he’s more
interested in me. I say, “Nah, I’m not into that. But my brother is, you should ask him to dance.” I point
Emmett out. He’s figured out what’s happening. I can see it on his face: He’s pissed. The gay dude says,
“Do I look like a tit man?” and walks off. That pisses me off, so I grab him—not grab but, like,
touch—and the guy flips out.
“Get your hands off me!” And I’m just like, “Whoa, chill out, dude.” You know, like, “Let’s not make
this a fight because we both know how that’s gonna end.” My buddy Niño’s holding me back, telling me
to simmer down. Then someone
shoves me from behind. It’s Emmett. He’s gone from pissed to something else, like pure fucking animal
rage. He’s crying, and his eyes are wild, like, I’m gonna rip your fucking throat out.
FD: He tried to hurt you? CT: No, the other guy. If I wasn’t holding him back— FD: Seems kind of out
of character, don’t you think? Attacking a stranger? CT: Not really. People like Emmett—they have no
impulse control.
FD: People like Emmett? CT: I’m just saying, once he gets something in his head, a switch just kind of
flips and that’s it, game over. Like the can of Pringles. You mess with his food or say the wrong thing,
he’ll fucking take a bite out of you.