I closed the book and looked at its title.  “Memories,” I read aloud.  “It should be called Selective Memories.”  

The sky was beginning to darken.  I needed to be going.  I took my empty tea mug to the sink, washed it out, and left the it in the drain.  Returning to the table, I picked up Vera’s journal, her Day Book, as she had labeled it, and turned to the pages where she had first begun writing about the Chapman murders.  I had time to read a couple more entries:

 Saturday, March 25^th 1950

Oh, my, it took hardly any coaching.  Denise Buck couldn’t wait to tell me all she knew about the O’Shea murder.  Swore me to secrecy, of course.  What a nothing.  She repeatedly mentioned how important her husband is to the case.  How certain he is that he will be able to solve it in no time.  Idiots!  They deserve each other. 

But I learned Forrester was wearing his favorite yellow shirt when he was killed.  That was worth putting up with Denise’s crowing, and eating a fourth of my strawberry surprise pie, the pig.  I plan on keeping this squealer close to me.   

Thursday,  March 30, 1950

Made a pineapple upside-down cake and took it to Nora O’Shea, but those meddlesome sons of hers were there.  Hardly let me in the door.  I could have easily breezed in if only Margaret and Ruth had been with their mother.  As if I would upset Nora. 

I was only allowed to visit for ten minutes.  Nora came in and sat but said very little to me.  I tried to ask a few unobtrusive questions, only to show my concern, but those boys squashed every one.  I’ll try again; they haven’t seen the last of me.

I closed the journal and prepared to leave.  I turned off the lamps and the fireplace heater, and realized daylight had slipped away.  Grabbing my coat, I was slipping it on when I heard a low chuckle.  I froze, with one arm in my jacket and the other dangling by my side.  The room was dark.  I heard the chuckle again.  It was horrifying.   My eyes slowly shifted around the room.  I saw only shadows. 

I managed to finish putting on my coat, then snapped up my things from the table.  I walked to the front door and flipped one of the switches.  The outside lights flooded the windows.  Without a backward glance, I opened the door and stepped outside.  I turned back with my key.  Something was standing just past the far end of the porch, out of the lights’ range.  I heard another soft laugh.  I dropped the key and ran.