The body of 18-year-old Brandon Nash of Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina was cut into two pieces and set on fire. The ashes were separated into five trash bags and driven out into the desert, where they were buried deep, deep underground. On the night of July 24th, 2017, Brandon Nash was murdered. We killed him at eleven thirty-two p.m. We cut him up at midnight. We set his remains on fire at twelve-thirty. We collected the ashes three hours later and got rid of the evidence at four twenty-three a.m. We went back home and went to bed. We made a blood pact never to tell anyone, and a promise that if this all came back to haunt us in the end, we’d all go down together.
We all agreed that he deserved it. We all abandoned guilt for fury. We put aside our morals and our emotions and we let hatred lead us. It was justice, we said. Fair.
I suppose that was the night I decided I wanted to be a hitman. Or hit woman, rather. Let’s say mercenary. Forensic science had always been my calling before, and that was what I would make a career out of, but killing people on the side seemed like a lucrative business.
Of course, we were never paid for the first one. Brandon was a choice made freely. And we didn’t even make it for ourselves – it was mostly for our friend. When the courts wouldn’t give her justice, we would. We decided it without telling her, and we kept her out of it for her safety. But Emma was our catalyst. Emma was the spark that ignited the fire that burned through us all.
I don’t think she ever figured out it was us. We are good liars, even better actors. But sometimes, when I see her now, she looks at me like she wants to ask me something. I always wait for her to say the words, but she never does. The expression on her face melts away and she smiles again, the moment gone. Maybe she does know, deep down. Sometimes I want to tell her.
If the day comes when she ever does ask, I will tell her everything. And I will tell her that I would do it again
And I would love every minute of it.