“What happened on the night of July 12th Mina?” Little Missy asked me for the umpteenth time. Her name was quite fitting considering that she gave it to herself before the cognitive part of her brain was fully formed.
“I met the girl in Alamond, ” I explained to the sheriff , a short pot-bellied man who wore a perpetual frown on his face like he was mad at the world for allowing his mother to mate with his godforsaken father. I have known men to bond over such commonalities, but I was beyond rédemption when it came to this particular man. He was a necessary evil in my story. Had my mother been any wiser, she would have locked herself in the house and ovulated in peace thirty-two years ago. This catastrophe could have been avoided. Continue reading