“Tell me why you killed Lucy.” Because he wanted her. Her and Kitty and everyone except for me. He had special time with them, special relationships with them—and I got the leftovers. The dirty laundry, the dinner and dishes, the half hour of television before he fell asleep in the recliner. My birthday was supposed to be all about me, but when I’d opened my presents, there were two that weren’t for me—one for each of them. I could tell they were from my dad because he sucked at wrapping and always wrote my name directly on the paper in black Sharpie. It was my birthday, and he had gotten
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