Page 70 of Little Shattered Dreams

“I have a key to her place, and she has a key to mine. I’m hanging up.”

“Wait … a guest services worker at the retreat is dead.”

Silence, for once, on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” I asked. “You still there?”

“I’m here. What happened?”

“She was shot, just like Quinn.”

“Yeah, well, Faith wouldn’t know anything about it. She’s at the grocery store.”

“Which one?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Whichone?”

A long sigh, and then, “Peterson’s Market, I think.”

“How long ago did she leave?” I asked.

“I dunno. I was at work. She left me a note.”

“On what kind of paper?”

“Why the hell does it matter?”

“Trust me, it does.”

“Pink paper with lines on it. Okay?”

“When you see her, tell her to call me. She has my number.” I ended the call and turned toward Simone, who had just dialed 911 to report the incident. “Will you find Grace and let her know I’d like to gather everyone together? I want to know what everyone has been doing over the last hour.”

“You got it.”

Simone headed for the front door, jolting to a stop right before she reached it. She leaned over, glancing at a piece of paper on the counter, a piece of paper that looked just like the one left on my door days earlier.

“You need to take a look at this, Gigi,” she said.

I joined her, my eyes coming to rest on what appeared to be a suicide note, written in cursive handwriting.

I’m sorry for everything. For lying, for the deception, and for hurting those I care about. The truth is, I met Quinn a couple of years ago. I applied to work at her gift shop. I told her I’d served time for theft, and she wouldn’t hire me because “once a thief, always a thief.” She said she couldn’t trust me.

After I was hired to work at the retreat, I started having sessions with Karl. As I talked about Quinn and the way she’d treated me, I was so angry. I found her address and sent her information on this place so I could confront her.

She didn’t even recognize me when she got here. Every conversation was all about her. Her problems. Her life. She’d been wronged, not the other way around. I listened to her moan and complain, dumping all her issues on me like I wanted to hear her entire life story, and I just … I snapped.

I wanted to make her understand, make her say she was sorry. I knew Calvin kept a spare gun in a drawer in his place, and I borrowed it, and I shot her. I thought I could find a way out of this, but now I know I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s a genuine regret, a careless error on my part.

I won’t be locked up again. I barely survived it the last time.

The way I see it, there’s only one way out, and I’ve decided to take it.

Forgive me, Clara

It made sense and it didn’t at the same time.

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