The Girl From the Woods
06
Her face was all over the news. It was a photo of her from the lacrosse game last year; her brown hair was braided, her green eyes bright and happy.
I always liked that photo.
The low hum of the TV followed me into the bathroom, the reporter's voice a mumble in my ears as I looked in the mirror.
I didn't look like a killer, that's what they'd say. But they were wrong.
Rachel was foolish to trust me.
My hands were still stained with red; it seeped between the lines of my palms, and was embedded under my fingernails. I couldn't get it off.
I knew then that's how they would find me—the guilt was living under my skin for everyone to see.
I always liked that photo.
The low hum of the TV followed me into the bathroom, the reporter's voice a mumble in my ears as I looked in the mirror.
I didn't look like a killer, that's what they'd say. But they were wrong.
Rachel was foolish to trust me.
My hands were still stained with red; it seeped between the lines of my palms, and was embedded under my fingernails. I couldn't get it off.
I knew then that's how they would find me—the guilt was living under my skin for everyone to see.