“And she was hanging!” The cry comes now, blustering out of my chest. Tears pooling in my eyes and streaming rivers down my cold cheeks. “Her body swinging back and forth. She had hung herself. My Scarlett had—hung herself in the closet where she was kept a prisoner. Fresh tears were still on her cheeks. Her neck was the color of a plum and elongated—the image of her was mortifying. And I was in shock. I couldn’t breathe. But then I saw the note on the ground in front of her feet hovering above it. In fresh ink, it read: ‘I still love you.’”
