Diary of a Murder, 1

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“We’ll get through this.” Carla reached out and grasped her best friend’s hand. “I know we will.”

Diane shook her head and shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic chair of the waiting room. Her dark curls fell forward over her lean face, casting deeper shadows on eyes already drawn by pain. “I don’t see how.” But she gave Carla’s hand a gentle squeeze.

Carla took hope and sat straighter. “I know it’s just part of God’s plan for—”

Diane jerked away and stood up, a scoffing noise echoing from her throat as she crossed to the window. “God. Right. You know good and well God left both of us when we were ten. I certainly haven’t seen Him since.”

Carla rose slowly, considering what to say as she joined Diane at the window. Five floors below, steam rose in spiraling tendrils from the rain-soaked streets, turning the air from a sauna bake to a steam bath. Carla knew she’d have a hard time breathing in the muggy air so different from the chilled air of the hospital. She dreaded leaving.

She dreaded staying even more.

“When we were ten. . . ” Diane’s words hung between them, both of them all too aware of what she meant. Ten. When both their lives had been ripped apart, forever changed by the man who now lay three doors away, trying to die. He’d destroyed their innocence, their families, and their faith. Carla had regained the last two. Diane still wouldn’t talk about it.

“He’ll make it. He’ll live.”

Diane snapped her head around, her words sharp. Her eyes narrowed, the pain giving way to fury. “And then what, Carla? Will you kill him for real next time?”

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