Jessica Knoll

It was Roger Yul, Denise’s on-again, off-again
boyfriend

That law enforcement backed up his self-purported claims of brilliance to cover up their own incompetence—in interviews they gave the media, in testimonies they made before the judge—and it all cemented from there, hardening into a generational truth passed down from mother to daughter.

I parted my lips and accepted the dry slug of his tongue, realizing you have two choices in life. You either wake up to someone’s fusty kiss or you wake up alone. Pick your poison.

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror, and Brian’s slid in my direction. A lady is present. My stomach slopped sideways. Motion sickness, perhaps.

“I’d love to hear your thinking on it, sir,” Brian said, straight across the table, as though I hadn’t spoken at all.

It wasn’t fair, but I blamed her for the regret in my mother’s voice in that moment.

“Fine,” I said, my voice nasty. “I’ll just never talk to my family again, if that’s what you want.”

“That is not what I want, Ruth. I want you to have a relationship with them on your own terms. One that doesn’t only feel good to them but to you too.”

“The mother believes her daughter ran away due to her psychological troubles. Apparently, she was committed for a period of time, and there was talk of sending her back to the facility. Her belief is that Martina Cannon manipulated and took advantage of her daughter, and Ms. Cannon’s insistence that Ruth was killed that day is really just a refusal to accept that Ruth realized the way they were carrying on was wrong and ran off.”

“There were eyewitnesses who put Ruth at Lake Sammamish that day, talking to a man who fits The Defendant’s description.

“They do,” Shirley said, and she did this sickening little shimmy, pleased as punch with herself, “because I am a mother. And what are you? You have nothing.”