When I got home from the police station, Mom was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, staring off into space. She had Becca’s sophomore school picture laying in front of her, Becca’s last school picture ever taken. My mom’s eyes were blank, emotionless.

“Mom?” I asked. “You ok?” She didn’t answer me. I bit my lip, unsure of what to say next. “Mom, I know it’s hard for you to deal with Becca being…gone, but it’s hard for all of us. Please don’t get so depressed. It’s really hard seeing you like this.”

She glanced in my direction, but didn’t meet my gaze. “It was Bobby.” she uttered almost inaudibly. “He killed my Rebecca, my youngest daughter.”

“You don’t know that.” I told her, although I had the same suspicion. “It could have been someone else.”

“No it couldn’t, because it was him. I know it. And those policemen know it too. Their just to damn careless to find the evidence to prove it.” she hissed. I’d never seen her this angry. My mom was like Becca, a naturally sweet person. She never swore, never yelled, never accused people of things. Until now.

“Detective Howard isn’t. He knows it had to be either Bobby or Lindsey, but there really isn’t any evidence. Whoever did it covered their tracks, they rinsed the fingerprints off of the baseball bat they used.” I informed her.

“Lindsey didn’t do it.” she stated blandly.

“Well she might have. It’s a possibility.” I replied.

But she just shook her head. “Lindsey didn’t do it.” she repeated. “It was Bobby.”

“What makes you so sure?” I wondered aloud.

“I just know. Maybe it’s my mother’s instinct or something, but I know. Bobby killed my daughter. My Becca.” Now when she looked at me, fortitude filled her eyes.

“Did you tell Detective Howard that?” I asked her.

“What’s the point?” she scoffed. “He’ll just say the same thing he’s been saying since the moment Becca died: that there’s no evidence so he can’t be sure. I’d just be wasting my breath by telling him what I think. It’s not like he really cares. I’m sure he’s dealt with tons of other cases like ours, it’s his job. So why would our case be any different than the others? Why would get special treatment?”

I couldn’t stand to see her like this. So angry, so exasperated, so chagrined. “Yeah, that is his job, Mom. Not to do the least amount of work possible, to whatever he possibly can to find the killer and to make justice. Don’t worry, that’s exactly what he’s doing. He’s going to find out who did this and then he’s going to put them in jail. It just takes time.”

“Well, I can’t wait very long. I just want this to be settled. And to have them put in jail isn’t enough. If they want to kill my daughter, then they should die too. They should have to go through exactly what Becca went through.” By now she was sobbing. I’d never seen my mom cry like this before. Yeah, she shed a few tears when we watched A Walk To Remember, but that was so much different. This was a whole new kind of crying. And it was much worse.

My heart ached for her at that moment. My heart ached for Becca. I wished that she were still alive. She had no right to be murdered. It just wasn’t fair. Watching Mom cry was enough to get me to start crying too. But I made myself stop. It was hard to hold back the tears that so desperately wanted to stream down my face and it left my throat feeling tight and strained.

But I had to be strong. For my mom. For myself. I couldn’t cry, it would only make Mom feel even worse. Although, being strong sometimes meant being able to let go. And I just couldn’t let go of Becca. She was my only sister.

“I don’t think that Becca would want that.” I murmured.

“Oh, so you think she would want us to forgive him?” she demanded.

“I didn’t say that.” I replied. “But she wouldn’t want us to stoop to his level. And she wouldn’t want us to mourn over her death either. She would want us to remember her in a happier way. She would want us to smile about what we once had, not cry because we lost it.”

“You’re right.” Mom said. “But it’s just so hard not to mourn. It’s so hard to smile without her here. I miss her so much.”

“I know, I do too.” I said softly.

She was silent for a moment before speaking up, barely able to be heard. “You know what the worst part is?”

“What?” I wasn’t so sure if I really wanted to know the answer, but I listened anyways.

“Knowing that she’ll never remember the things that I’ll never forget.” That was all I could take. Now she was depressing me too.

“I think I’m going to go up to bed.” I told her. It was already eight o’clock and I was already tired. So I headed upstairs to my room and shrugged out of my belted black shirt dress, then slipped out of my black leggings and black leather-lined, peep-toed heels.

I stepped into my favorite pair of plaid flannel pajama pants and pulled a plain white t-shirt over my head. I climbed into bed, tugging the comforter up to my chin and nestling my head on my pillow, my eyes fluttering shut. But I still tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. I just had so many unwanted thoughts racing through my head.

So many mixed emotions, so many unanswered questions, so many unsettling suspicions. It was too much for me to handle. After all, I was only one person.

My heart began to race as the memory of finding Becca dead in the garage flooded my mind. Seeing her lying there on the cement floor. Her eyes wide open, filled with a frozen state of fear and shock. Her lifeless body, in a pool of her own blood. Blood staining the ground. Blood on my clothes, on my hands. Blood everywhere.

Before I knew it, I was struggling to breathe. My breath caught in my throat and I was panting in exasperation, my lungs searching desperately for air. I gained control of myself and my breathing returned to an even, steady pace. I rested my head back onto my pillow, relaxing my now tense muscles.

I stared at the digital clock on my nightstand, watching the minutes pass by for what felt like hours. But it had actually only been twenty-three minutes. It was strange how slow the time passed when you stared at a clock. Kind of like how it always seemed to take longer for water to boil if you stood over the pot, monitoring it.

However, watching the time go by at such a slow rate caused my wariness to grow. My eyes fell shut and I drifted into a deep, heavy sleep. That was the first night that I’d dreamed about Becca.


Bobby stormed into my garage, Becca following behind him. Both of them were enraged. “Why are you acting so freakin’ weird?” Bobby demanded.

And suddenly, Becca’s eyes filled with tears and she looked down at the ground, not able to meet Bobby’s eyes. “Because I know, Bobby.”

“Know what?” he inquired, looking truly confused.

“About Rachel.” She whipped her head up, deadpanning him.

He seemed to cower down to her at this statement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” This was clearly a lie.

She shook her head, laughing bitterly. “Don’t lie to me. I’m so sick of being lied to. I already know, so don’t act like I don’t.”

Bobby looked away from her and a distinct silence fell between them. Then out of nowhere, there was a clattering sound. Both of their heads jerked over to the direction in which it came from. A bunch of shovels and rakes had been accidentally knocked over. By Lindsey.


I jolted awake, sitting up in my bed, gasping for air once again. Did I just dream about the fight that Bobby and Becca had had right before Becca died?

No, that couldn’t be possible. I wasn’t psychic. It was just impractical. There was no such thing as being psychic. There was no such thing as psychic visions either. And there definitely wasn’t such a thing as psychic dreams.

But what could my dream have meant then? Was my imagination just working overtime? No, this dream was much too vivid. It was like I was there. It just seemed so real. How could I have known what happened if I wasn’t even there though?

Did I have a psychic dream?

No, I couldn’t have. But I was pretty sure that I did.

I stood up, my bare feet chilling as they stepped onto the cold hard-wood floor. Then I walked into the hallway bathroom, which was straight across the hall from my room.

I stepped inside, shut the door, and splashed some icy cold water on my face, sending shivers throughout my body. I patted my face dry with the towel hanging over the metal towel bar.

Then I put it back and place and took a deep breath, staring at my reflection in the mirror for a moment. Staring back at me was someone I’d never seen before.

She was shaken, frightened, weary, rigid, unsure of herself. She wasn’t confident or strong or powerful. She wasn’t me. She couldn’t have been.

But she was.

That was what Becca’s death had done to me. It had torn me up inside. Now I was a stranger to myself. Taking another deep, yet wavering breath, I flipped off the lights and walked back across the hall to my room.

I climbed back into bed and lay down, staring straight up at the ceiling. I couldn’t get myself to go back to sleep.

It wasn’t because I was no longer tired. I was exhausted. It wasn’t because I had too much on my mind to sleep. Although I had a lot running through my thoughts, I was still able to sleep. But that wasn’t the reason.

The reason that I couldn’t sleep was because I didn’t want to have another psychic dream. I hated admitting it to myself, but I was scared.