When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. Sometimes I take innocent lives. " "Won't my life do as well as his?" supplicated the other. She passed inside and upstairs without a word. Ray did not pace, he just stood. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. The worst was over now. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night.
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