A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

I sit in the passenger’s seat, watching, still pinned in place by the
seat belt.
Bea is all aglow in the light from the headlights. She looks angelic.
I’m buzzed. Things happen in slow motion. My depth perception is
off. I feel disconnected, but still cognizant because the buzz is
wearing off.
Bea and Kate have a cat. They foster things. Bea would never
intentionally hurt anything. She’s beside herself with guilt. She folds
herself in half, puts a hand to her mouth and cries. It happens only
momentarily. Bea isn’t one to cry.
She snaps back up. She wipes her eyes. She rushes to the car.
As she descends into the driver’s seat, she’s chillingly composed.
She’s hatched a plan.
The first thing she does is slam her door closed. The car fades to
black. She kills the headlights. The street before us also turns black.
Our streetlights are lanterns. They’re more decorative than practical.
“What are you doing?” I ask. If the animal is dead, there’s nothing
we can do for it. If it’s still alive, we can call Kate. Kate could help.
Bea turns to me. She grabs ahold of my arm, so tightly it hurts.
Her nails dig into me. “You can’t tell anybody about this. Do you hear
me, Meredith? You have to promise me that. Do you promise?” she
says.
I quickly sober up, because she’s scaring me. People run over
animals all the time. It’s why there’s a word for it. Roadkill. I’m not
insensitive, but these things happen.
“Get a grip, Bea.” My voice is light when I speak, an insouciant
whisper. “People hit animals all the time. It’s fine. Is it still alive?”
I try to free my arm. Bea won’t let me. If anything, she holds more
tightly. My forearm begins to throb.
The light in the car is negligible. I can just make out the shape of
her, though the details are imprecise.
“Promise me,” Bea demands. Her voice is unshaken. But there’s
something off about her eyes; they’re not quite right.
At her behest I do. “I promise, Bea. I won’t say a thing.”
I tell her that whatever ran out into the street did so before she had
a chance to react. She can’t beat herself up over it. It’s the thing’s
own fault. “When I was sixteen I ran over a whole litter of raccoons.