Chapter 4

Life at college was free of curses, judgmental stares, and no one knew my past.

I studied hard, joined clubs, and even got a boyfriend.

I felt like I had completely cleansed myself.

Until Detective Reynolds appeared at the school gate again.

He was in plain clothes, carrying a black plastic bag, shivering in the cold wind.

Seeing me, he hurried over.

"Aurora."

I frowned, instinctively stepping back, glancing around.

Thankfully, my boyfriend wasn't around.

"Why are you here?" I asked in a low, unfriendly tone.

"These are your mom's belongings," he handed me the black plastic bag.

"She clutched it fiercely before she left, wouldn't let anyone touch it."

"She gestured that I absolutely had to give it to you personally."

I looked at the bag, and said coldly.

"I don't want it."

"Take it."

Detective Reynolds sighed, forcing it into my hand.

"It's a keepsake."

Then, he gave me a deep look, turned, and left.

I held the bag, feeling its surprising weight.

I walked to the trash can behind the dorm.

Opening the bag, a stale smell, a mix of mold and blood, assaulted my senses.

It was a padded jacket.

Deep blue, an old-fashioned style, the collar worn white, the cuffs patched all over.

It was that tattered padded jacket she'd worn for over ten years.

I remembered. Every winter, she'd wear this one jacket.

Working, sleeping, going out—it was always this one, stained with indelible grime.

"So disgusting."

I picked it up distastefully with two fingers.

On the front of the jacket, there was a large, dark red stain.

It must have been the blood from when she killed Mr. Hayes that day.

I remembered her smiling at me, her face covered in blood. My stomach churned again.

"Why keep this junk? It's repulsive."

I raised my hand, swinging the jacket forcefully towards the trash can.

There was a piece of wire sticking out from the rim of the trash can.

"Rip!"

The jacket caught on the wire, tearing a long gash.

The cheap, dark cotton stuffing inside wasn't what came out.

"Thud."

A thick wad of something fell from the jacket's interlayer, landing in the snow.

Immediately after, a neatly folded piece of paper fluttered down.

I froze.

The wad was wrapped tightly, layer upon layer, in plastic.

It had come undone, revealing a corner.

It was all money.

Five-dollar bills, ten-dollar bills, even a handful of coins.

Exactly like what I'd found in the tin box.

I stiffly bent down and picked up the paper.

The paper was heavily creased, still stained with a bit of dried blood.

I opened it. It was covered in tiny, crooked words.

Like a child's scrawl, almost illegible.

She couldn't read, much less write.

These words, she must have painstakingly copied them from a dictionary in prison.

I looked at the first line of words, and I froze, tears instantly gushing out.