in the darkness, I felt my strength ebb away. I knew I couldnât run any farther.
I dropped down, gasping and panting, in front of the wall. I rested against it, closing my eyes, waiting for my breathing to slow, for my pulse to stop pounding.
Waiting . . . and thinking.
About Lucy. My best friend.
Trying to make sense of this.
I pictured her in her room at night, planning this, plotting it. Plotting to kill her mom and dad. And Kent. Figuring out how she could escape her ugly crimes.
Why, Lucy?
I knew she had been having trouble with her parents. I knew she thought they were too strict. I knew the Kramers didnât want her to get so seriousabout Kent. They liked Kent. They just thought that Lucy and him had become too serious too fast.
And so Lucy had fought and argued with her parents.
But who didnât?
Thatâs what parents and high school students did. It was a normal part of life. Not a happy part of life, but a normal one.
So, why? Why did she choose to murder them both?
And why did she murder Kent? Kent, who cared for her more than anyone in the world. Kent, who had always been so wonderful, so kind and understanding. So much fun.
Kent. Kent.
I kept repeating his name in my mind. Picturing him alive.
I didnât want to picture him as I had seen him tonight in the den. I didnât want to see his outstretched body, and across the room, his openmouthed, winking head.
I wanted to see him moving across the room with that sturdy, athletic walk of his, that confident smile, the flashing blue eyes. I wanted to see his blond hair ruffling in the wind as the three of us tossed a Frisbee around during one of our picnics in Shadyside Park.
I wanted to hear his voice. Hear his high, happy laugh.
Never again, I told myself, forcing back the sobs. I pressed the back of my head against the cool stone wall, picturing Kent alive and happy.
Picturing Lucy. In her own body. Not in mine. Not in the body she stole from me to commit her gruesome crimes.
Why, Lucy?
I had always been such a good friend to her. Even when she was mean to me. Even when she acted superior because she had a boyfriend and I didnât. I ignored that side of her. I ignored the part of her that could sometimes be stuck-up and cold.
Because I was her friend. Because I wanted to be there when she needed me.
And when Lucy had the car accident, I was at the hospital every day. I was her only friend who came every day without fail. Her only friend who stuck with her, who never gave up hope.
Even when the doctors had given up, I didnât budge. I knew Lucy would pull through. I never lost hope, never lost my faith in her.
And sure enough, she did pull through.
Lucy was okay, and I was there when we all learned sheâd be okay.
I was there. I was always there for you, Lucy.
So where are you now?
Where are you now with my body?
Lost in my troubled thoughts, I struggled to puzzle out what had happened to me on this, the longest day of my life. I shut my eyes. I suddenly felt exhausted.
I hadnât eaten since lunch. My stomach growled, but I didnât feel hungry.
I gazed down at my clothes. Lucyâs clothes. The tights torn and stained. The short skirt twisted.
My hand went to the pack around my waist. My wallet. I had my wallet in the pack.
Shaking my head, I pulled it out. Was it my wallet or Lucyâs?
I held it up and examined it in the narrow shaft of moonlight that filtered down between the trees.
My wallet.
I unzipped it. I donât know why. What did I hope to find?
I slapped at a mosquito on my arm. The wallet dropped to the ground. As I reached down for it, I had an idea.
A desperate idea. A crazy idea.
But if it worked . . .
I dug feverishly into the wallet. It was so hard to see. And my fingers were trembling with excitement.
A few seconds later I found it and plucked it out. An old class photo of Lucy.
I tucked everything back into my wallet, zipped it, and shoved
I dropped down, gasping and panting, in front of the wall. I rested against it, closing my eyes, waiting for my breathing to slow, for my pulse to stop pounding.
Waiting . . . and thinking.
About Lucy. My best friend.
Trying to make sense of this.
I pictured her in her room at night, planning this, plotting it. Plotting to kill her mom and dad. And Kent. Figuring out how she could escape her ugly crimes.
Why, Lucy?
I knew she had been having trouble with her parents. I knew she thought they were too strict. I knew the Kramers didnât want her to get so seriousabout Kent. They liked Kent. They just thought that Lucy and him had become too serious too fast.
And so Lucy had fought and argued with her parents.
But who didnât?
Thatâs what parents and high school students did. It was a normal part of life. Not a happy part of life, but a normal one.
So, why? Why did she choose to murder them both?
And why did she murder Kent? Kent, who cared for her more than anyone in the world. Kent, who had always been so wonderful, so kind and understanding. So much fun.
Kent. Kent.
I kept repeating his name in my mind. Picturing him alive.
I didnât want to picture him as I had seen him tonight in the den. I didnât want to see his outstretched body, and across the room, his openmouthed, winking head.
I wanted to see him moving across the room with that sturdy, athletic walk of his, that confident smile, the flashing blue eyes. I wanted to see his blond hair ruffling in the wind as the three of us tossed a Frisbee around during one of our picnics in Shadyside Park.
I wanted to hear his voice. Hear his high, happy laugh.
Never again, I told myself, forcing back the sobs. I pressed the back of my head against the cool stone wall, picturing Kent alive and happy.
Picturing Lucy. In her own body. Not in mine. Not in the body she stole from me to commit her gruesome crimes.
Why, Lucy?
I had always been such a good friend to her. Even when she was mean to me. Even when she acted superior because she had a boyfriend and I didnât. I ignored that side of her. I ignored the part of her that could sometimes be stuck-up and cold.
Because I was her friend. Because I wanted to be there when she needed me.
And when Lucy had the car accident, I was at the hospital every day. I was her only friend who came every day without fail. Her only friend who stuck with her, who never gave up hope.
Even when the doctors had given up, I didnât budge. I knew Lucy would pull through. I never lost hope, never lost my faith in her.
And sure enough, she did pull through.
Lucy was okay, and I was there when we all learned sheâd be okay.
I was there. I was always there for you, Lucy.
So where are you now?
Where are you now with my body?
Lost in my troubled thoughts, I struggled to puzzle out what had happened to me on this, the longest day of my life. I shut my eyes. I suddenly felt exhausted.
I hadnât eaten since lunch. My stomach growled, but I didnât feel hungry.
I gazed down at my clothes. Lucyâs clothes. The tights torn and stained. The short skirt twisted.
My hand went to the pack around my waist. My wallet. I had my wallet in the pack.
Shaking my head, I pulled it out. Was it my wallet or Lucyâs?
I held it up and examined it in the narrow shaft of moonlight that filtered down between the trees.
My wallet.
I unzipped it. I donât know why. What did I hope to find?
I slapped at a mosquito on my arm. The wallet dropped to the ground. As I reached down for it, I had an idea.
A desperate idea. A crazy idea.
But if it worked . . .
I dug feverishly into the wallet. It was so hard to see. And my fingers were trembling with excitement.
A few seconds later I found it and plucked it out. An old class photo of Lucy.
I tucked everything back into my wallet, zipped it, and shoved
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