Page 101 - The Houseguest

gloved hands and grabbed the file. I took yet another deep breath as it fell open in my palms and I began to read.
The file was about two inches thick filled with handwritten papers, newspaper clippings about the accident, the trial and...photos. I carefully flipped each photo in place to keep everything appearing as though it hadn’t been touched. The photo on top was my little Katie in first grade. How did this bitch get a school photo of my baby? The next was a wedding photo of Karina at sunset. I remembered the picture as one I’d carried in my wallet. She was turned sideways looking out into the ocean, the southern winds gently blowing her hair. She had said to me when recalling that photo that it felt as though the sun’s rays were kissing her cheeks. Before my focus had shifted to seeking Ravenge, this photo would have brought me to tears. But at this time, I had no tears. Perhaps I had cried them all, or a more likely scenario would be that I was incapable of producing anymore. Maybe time permits hate and anger to supersede grief and sadness...something they conveniently forget to add to the “stages of grief.” But again, I returned to the question: How did this bitch get photos of my family...and more importantly, WHY?
Instantly my suspicious mind began to create scenarios in which she intended to kill my family. It was all planned! She killed them on purpose! I could almost feel my thoughts whirling around my brain out of control. But what could possibly have been her motive for performing such a heinous act? It didn’t make any sense. I chuckled aloud realizing I’d let my mind imagine the impossible, like those “flat
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The Houseguest by Linda Ellis www.LindaEllis.life