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“Oh my God,” Emma and I whispered in unison.
It was Becky.
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MAMA DRAMA
Time stood still as Becky’s car slowly rolled through the parking lot. I stared into those hollow eyes, into that pit of a mouth, trying to recognize something of me in her, but all I saw was an unhinged woman. Someone troubled. Someone who definitely had issues.
And major secrets.
Suddenly, as Becky hit the gas pedal so violently the tires made a shrill squeaking sound, something clicked in my mind. That memory I’d had of my grandmother and my dad talking, the one where I’d lurked at the top of the stairs, surfaced once more, and I remembered what they’d been saying. They’d been whispering, but I definitely heard Grandma say the words She’s mentally disturbed and She’s violent. My father seemed frustrated, saying, We have to help her. Before it’s too late. Had I crossed paths with her the night I died? Because if she was as mentally disturbed as they seemed to think, who knew what kind of reaction she would have had when she saw me.
I groped for the rest of that memory from the night I died, anything past the moment I’d yelled at my father and then turned away in a rage. But it was just a huge, gaping hole. And yet I knew something was there. Something that would scare me to no end. Something that would break both Emma’s and my hearts.
Because the only thing more devastating than my adoptive father killing me and threatening Emma was if our real mother had done it all.
