The Inmate

by Freida McFadden

I never saw the face of the man who tried to kill me. The power was out that night and everything was pitch black. But I knew Shane very well. I knew the feel of his body. The smell of him. I knew it was him. It had to be.

I touch my snowflake necklace—my fingers always go there whenever I’m anxious.

It’s a snowflake. I drop the necklace like it’s made of acid. I think I’m going to be sick. It’s the same kind of snowflake necklace that I used to wear years ago. The same kind of snowflake necklace that Shane tried to strangle me with a decade earlier.