what to say. A sense of relief flooded her, but at the same time she felt guarded. She’d never admitted anything to anybody, barely even to herself. She tried to nod, but it only looked like her face was shaking in the breeze.
Bonnie touched her hand, and after a few seconds Karen returned the grasp. She smiled.
* * *
Two weeks later, Karen brought Bonnie home when both Mom and Tina were out. She’d never hinted about her secrets to anybody … until now. She led the way to Mom and Dad’s bedroom. She could never stop referring to it as her father’s room, even though he’d been dead for close to two years.
Karen was nineteen now.
She held Bonnie’s hand as they snuck into the room. The closet was a walk-in, with a shelf near the top. The four boxes were still there. She went to the bathroom to grab a small stool and climbed up.
“I’m sure Mom hasn’t looked at these. There’s a bit of dust on them from them sitting here.”
“Pretty freaky. You sure had balls, looking in here in the first place. I’d never be able to do that.”
“You’d be surprised what you can find courage for when you know you won’t be caught.”
“Well, there’s always a chance .”
Karen laughed. “Well, I’m sure most people would agree with you.”
She lifted one lid. “Here are the report cards I told you about. And these,” she said as she moved the first box aside, “are the porn magazines.”
“God, that must have totally been yucky.”
Karen nodded and pulled down the third box. She opened it and took out the gun, holding it carefully, not wanting to scare Bonnie.
“Whoa … that’s … well, I’m not exactly sure what it is.”
Bonnie laughed, and Karen soaked in the sound. She moved to Bonnie and kissed her on the mouth. It was an act she was getting used to, but she liked it better every time. Bonnie put her hand through Karen’s hair and then hugged her.
“You know, we’re all alone … we could be doing something else with our time,” said Bonnie.
She smiled, and Karen’s heart jumped. She’d wanted to hear Bonnie say something like that since their conversation in the park.
It took all of Karen’s willpower to say, “I really want that, but I need to show you the last box. I’ve never been able to talk to anybody about it until now.”
Not even Bobby .
The box looked the same as the other three: off-white, formerly used to hold five hundred standard-sized envelopes. The top fit snugly, and Karen had to pry it open.
She pulled out a newspaper article and then a small notebook.
“That’s her,” she whispered.
Bonnie took the newspaper carefully. It was more than twenty-five years old, discolored to a sickly yellow-brown.
Local Girl Found Dead
The article described how the body of eight-year-old Tammy Preston had been found in a small park near her home.
The girl grinned from the newspaper. A couple of her teeth were missing, and she looked like she was full of joy and hadn’t a care in the world. Although the photo was black and white, Karen knew that her copper-colored hair fell past her shoulders and that her eyes were blue.
The article said that she had been shot by a .45 caliber revolver and that the police were combing the area. So far there were no suspects.
“Such a pretty girl,” said Bonnie. She turned to Karen. “You’re sure?”
Karen nodded and handed Bonnie the notebook. It contained only a few pages of handwritten notes.
“That’s Dad’s handwriting. It’s dated at the top, and he would have been thirty-two when he wrote it. I was eight—the same age Tammy Preston was when she was killed.
Bonnie read the notes:
It’s been fifteen years now, and there’s rarely a day I don’t think about Tammy. I never knew her until that night, but since then, she’s been part of me, like a conjoined twin, locked together forever. I killed her, and now she haunts
Bonnie touched her hand, and after a few seconds Karen returned the grasp. She smiled.
* * *
Two weeks later, Karen brought Bonnie home when both Mom and Tina were out. She’d never hinted about her secrets to anybody … until now. She led the way to Mom and Dad’s bedroom. She could never stop referring to it as her father’s room, even though he’d been dead for close to two years.
Karen was nineteen now.
She held Bonnie’s hand as they snuck into the room. The closet was a walk-in, with a shelf near the top. The four boxes were still there. She went to the bathroom to grab a small stool and climbed up.
“I’m sure Mom hasn’t looked at these. There’s a bit of dust on them from them sitting here.”
“Pretty freaky. You sure had balls, looking in here in the first place. I’d never be able to do that.”
“You’d be surprised what you can find courage for when you know you won’t be caught.”
“Well, there’s always a chance .”
Karen laughed. “Well, I’m sure most people would agree with you.”
She lifted one lid. “Here are the report cards I told you about. And these,” she said as she moved the first box aside, “are the porn magazines.”
“God, that must have totally been yucky.”
Karen nodded and pulled down the third box. She opened it and took out the gun, holding it carefully, not wanting to scare Bonnie.
“Whoa … that’s … well, I’m not exactly sure what it is.”
Bonnie laughed, and Karen soaked in the sound. She moved to Bonnie and kissed her on the mouth. It was an act she was getting used to, but she liked it better every time. Bonnie put her hand through Karen’s hair and then hugged her.
“You know, we’re all alone … we could be doing something else with our time,” said Bonnie.
She smiled, and Karen’s heart jumped. She’d wanted to hear Bonnie say something like that since their conversation in the park.
It took all of Karen’s willpower to say, “I really want that, but I need to show you the last box. I’ve never been able to talk to anybody about it until now.”
Not even Bobby .
The box looked the same as the other three: off-white, formerly used to hold five hundred standard-sized envelopes. The top fit snugly, and Karen had to pry it open.
She pulled out a newspaper article and then a small notebook.
“That’s her,” she whispered.
Bonnie took the newspaper carefully. It was more than twenty-five years old, discolored to a sickly yellow-brown.
Local Girl Found Dead
The article described how the body of eight-year-old Tammy Preston had been found in a small park near her home.
The girl grinned from the newspaper. A couple of her teeth were missing, and she looked like she was full of joy and hadn’t a care in the world. Although the photo was black and white, Karen knew that her copper-colored hair fell past her shoulders and that her eyes were blue.
The article said that she had been shot by a .45 caliber revolver and that the police were combing the area. So far there were no suspects.
“Such a pretty girl,” said Bonnie. She turned to Karen. “You’re sure?”
Karen nodded and handed Bonnie the notebook. It contained only a few pages of handwritten notes.
“That’s Dad’s handwriting. It’s dated at the top, and he would have been thirty-two when he wrote it. I was eight—the same age Tammy Preston was when she was killed.
Bonnie read the notes:
It’s been fifteen years now, and there’s rarely a day I don’t think about Tammy. I never knew her until that night, but since then, she’s been part of me, like a conjoined twin, locked together forever. I killed her, and now she haunts
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