TWENTY-ONE

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Back on earth, Mary was inside, cleaning. The Divines had moves our bodies to a more remote location, still somewhere close to Millton. I was crying. In my hands was a phone I had stolen from someone's pocket. My hair was longer now, I was taller. I was seventeen. Maybe eighteen.

The guilt of Caleb's death and the grief of Oliver's toppled over me. I pushed the number 9, then began writing a note.

Dear Person(s) Concerned,

"I am turning myself in for the murder of my own mother, father, and sister. The case has been closed for, I suppose, a year. I want the appropriate punishment for this, But Mary, I want her to have the care she needs. I can't live like this."

I dialed a number after nine. I dialied a 1, then kept writing, My heart thudded, and I felt sick.

"We have money. I want to give it to an old friend of ours, Dillan Raking. He was going through something with his girlfriend last year..." I added 'last year' although it was a lie, because I didn't want them thinking he'd had contact with killers. "I want to give him the money so he can go through therapy. Make Mary aware that Caleb was my fault. I did it. She will know what I mean. Let this document be used for legal purposes. In above writing, I admitted murder. As guardian of Mary Clarkson, I will have both our rights recognized, even if mine is lived in prison. I will not undergo trial, as I am guilty. Signed, Emma Whitestone."

I finished dialing the number, sitting on the front porch. I gripped the paper and pushed the call button.

"911, what's your emergency?"

I laughed. "Oh, geez, where do I start?"

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