Chapter Sixty-Two. Kathleen, 1964
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Kathleen was dreaming about a watermelon hitting the floor and exploding. That dull, wet thump echoed in her brain.
When she finally opened her eyes, she screamed. Ronald lay crumpled on the floor next to the couch.
“No!” she yelled, dropping to her knees beside him. What had happened? The baseball bat he must have been carrying home from practice lay next to his head.
Someone had hit him with it.
Ronald’s sweet brown eyes were still open, but glassy now. Blood was on his face. On the rug. On her hands.
“No, no, no, no,” she wailed. This couldn’t be happening; it must still be a dream.
What had she done? She remembered a man’s hands reaching for her in the night; she’d fought back. She must have grabbed the bat. She’d wanted to kill—but she’d meant to kill Mac.
She opened her mouth and a horrible sound filled the room.
His family would hate her. Everyone would hate her. She couldn’t call anyone, not her friends, not her mother, certainly not the police. They’d put her in jail, then they’d put a needle in her arm.
She became aware of someone pounding on the door.
“Go away!” she roared. She gathered Ronald in her arms and rocked back and forth, her tears falling on his face.
“Come back to me,” she begged.
When he didn’t, she laid him down gently. Then she walked into the bathroom and grabbed Ronald’s razor and held it to her wrist.
She still didn’t understand what had happened, or how she could’ve done this. But she knew one thing: She could no longer live without him. Or with herself.