The French Girl's Carrie.

Chapter One - Dianna, Frankie Dianna.

Carrie is a murderer. She murdered my best friend, Kaitlyn Adams. She almost murdered me. If she had the chance, she would murder me. I know where she is. She doesn't know where I am. The police don't know where she is. Neither of the know I know.

"Mary! Breakfast's ready!" I call from the kitchen as I toss a blueberry pancake onto a plate. My seven-year-old daughter, Mary Harmony Davidson toddled out and sat on the stool. "Mm, pancakes!" She breathes. "Thanks Mum."
I toss a few more onto the cooling rack as Mary drowns her pancake in honey and banana. "Least on the honey Mary." I say as she squeezes half a bottle of the stuff onto her pancake.
I grab a glass of coconut water and a pancake and plop down next to her. "So, how's school?" I ask, spooning Greek yogurt, honey and fresh fruit onto my pancake.
"Boring. We're learning fractions." She sighs.
"Oh. What about dance?"
"Oh, it's good. Kim and I are the leads in a ballet Routine, and I beat Jane in the auditions for the acro lead, so I'm the lead in that too." She says smugly.
"What about the Yellow Fellow lyrical dance? Who's the lead for that?" I ask.
"Olivia Windshallow, some new girl. She's also doing a duet with Louie Jane."
"Who's Louie? Do you like him? You're a bit young for a boyfriend. Spill!" I gush.
"Mum!" Mary sighs, exasperated. "He's Alice Ford's boyfriend!"
"Oh, sorry hon." I say, secretly smiling a little.
Her worries were so small, and for that I was glad. She didn't need to know about the countless funerals, the constant nightmares, about Carrie Smith. "Mummy," Mary says. "Can I go to Allie's house today? She's having a mini slumber party to remember Mr. Mittens. Please Mummy."
I think about the news, how Carrie escaped a week ago, how she's coming for me. "Of course darling, I'll call Mrs. Snow after brekkie."
Mary glances at her empty plate and stares longingly at my uneaten pancake. "Well," She starts sneakily, "how 'bout you call Mrs. Snow and I'll eat you pancake?"
With the worry gnawing at my gut it's barely a suggestion. "Sure." I murmur reaching for my phone.
"Hi, Mrs. Snow? Yes it's me, Chloe. Yeah, the party. Mm. Yup. Half an hour? Thank you so much Harriet. Bye!" I say before hanging up. "Okay Mary, you've got half an hour before Mrs. Snow comes and gets you."
"Yay!" She squeals, running off.
Xavier, my husband, slides down the stairs, half asleep. "A latte, vanillary please." He murmurs as I pass him a plate of blueberry pancakes drenched in chocolate sauce and a cup of coffee. A murmured thanks and a small nod is all I get before he's guzzling down coffee and stuffing his mouth with pancakes. "Did you hear about Carrie?" I whisper to him.
"Yeah." He says gravely. "Don't worry, she's not coming for you."
"She might be." I argue. "I just worry about Mary, you know. What if she gets Mary instead of me?"
He opens his mouth, ready to answer or argue, I don't know which, only to be silenced by Mary skipping out. "Excuse me miss, what do you think you're wearing?" I ask, transforming into 'Mum'.
She looks down at her old grey sweats and oversized, ugly Christmas sweater. "It's sunny and warm out. Go and put on a nicer outfit. How 'bout that pretty denim apricot overall thing with your white lacy top and white ballet flats?"
"Ugh!" She sighs, stomping off into her room.
"Hon, we'll look after Mary. Anyway, she's a smart kid. She's got my common sense and your survival instincts." Xavier says.
I murmur in agreement, sipping my coconut water. "Beep, beep, beep!" My phone sings.
"Hello, Chloe Quinton speaking."
"Hey Chloe, it's Dianna, Frankie Dianna." Someone says in an obviously fake New Jersey accent.
"Samantha, is that you?" I laugh.
"Hon, Chloe, don't you remember me? Ex-BFF, you know, the one who killed Kaitlyn. It's me, Carrie."