She came to me, after all. “You weren’t lying,” she finally said, looking thoughtful, like a memory was playing in her mind. I’d told her in the janitor’s closet seven years ago that I killed my mother. She thought I was talking shit. Now she knew. “When did it start?” she asked, her brain deciphering what happened. But I wasn’t going there. Never, ever again. “In the fountain when you were eight and I was eleven,” I told her. “That’s not what I meant.” “That’s all that matters.”
