Her closet was chaos spilling forward.
I opened the door and it was like a jack-in-the-box junped out at me.
“You don’t understand, ” she said. “We’ve all got something. These things mean so much to me.
Only, when she’d look for a particular pair, she could only find one shoe or couldn’t find the pair at all. I refused to help.
When she was jailed, two years later, a year after I got fed up and left, it was based on evidence found at the bottom of that closet. No wonder she’d kept it a jumble for so long.
Did she forget what she had buried under that heap?
She hid those skeletons well, just for a while.
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