“Everything is going to be all right now, sweetie. Fin is going to take us far away from here. Don’t cry. He’ll be your new daddy. He’ll buy you things. He’ll take care of us. He isn’t like the others.”

The memory fell over her, the weight of it stealing her breath, the pain of it making her want to curl up in a ball on the floor.

“Stop it! Stop it!” She couldn’t think about this now. She had to get up to the schoolhouse. Stepping into the kitchen, she opened the top drawer. The butcher knife was long, the handle warm in her hand. As the blade caught the light, she flinched as if she could feel the blade cutting through flesh.

She started to put it back, repulsed, her stomach revolting as she remembered the smell of blood. Blood pooling on the once-white sheets, her mother’s vacant eyes. She stumbled back from the open drawer, afraid she might black out, the knife gripped in her hand.

Fighting back the darkness that threatened to pull her under, she stepped out the back door and, keeping the knife hidden behind her, started up the hill. She could see the light burning in the schoolhouse, knew who was waiting up there for her.

Do you remember yet?

You know who killed her. You’ve always known.

“Jolene?” Dulcie glanced over at Russell next to her standing on the steps of the small house and knocked again on Jolene’s door. The lights were on inside the house and both her car and her bike were out front.

When she didn’t get an answer, Dulcie tried the door and found it unlocked. Her heart in her throat, she opened the door. “Jolene?”

The house looked empty. She stood rooted to the floor and Russell hurried past her to search for her sister.

Dulcie felt numb, too afraid almost to breathe, let alone help him search.

“She’s not here,” he said when he returned.

The house had felt empty, empty as she felt inside. She glanced at the computer sitting on a desk under the window in the corner.

“I’m going to go look for her,” Russell said, heading for the door.

“Wait. I don’t want you going alone. I want to check something.” If Jolene had been writing the murder story, wouldn’t it be on her computer?

She stepped to the desk, pulled up the chair and with trembling fingers touched the mouse. The screen lit up, the words leaping out at her.

You know who killed her. You’ve always known. But you don’t want to remember the blade of the knife, dripping bright red with your mother’s blood, or the hand holding it.

“Oh, God, Russell. It’s here on the computer. At least part of it,” Dulcie cried. “It looks as if she is in the middle of writing it—”