Blood on My Hands

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I would like to thank the following people for their contributions toward bringing this story to life:

Regina Griffin, Greg Ferguson, Dr. Petra Deistler-Kaufmann, Tina Pantginis, and Augusta Klein.

“You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.”

— JULIE-JEANNE-ÉLÉANORE DE LESPINASSE,

French salonist (1732–1776)

“Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

— SUN-TZU, Chinese general and military strategist (~400 BC)

Chapter

1

Saturday 11:45 P.M.

IN THE DARK woods behind the baseball dugout, I’m kneeling next to Katherine’s body, my heart racing, my breaths shallow and fast, my emotions reeling crazily at the sight on the ground before me. Katherine is lying on her side, curled up, as if she was cowering from whoever attacked her. Her body is still warm, but there’s no pulse. I know because I just pressed my index and middle fingers against her sticky wet neck and then to her wrist to feel her carotid and radial arteries, the ones the EMTs told me they checked. And that means she’s dead. Dead! It can’t be possible. Katherine … who I’ve gone to school with, been friends—and enemies—with. My stomach hiccups spasmodically and I taste bile burning the back of my throat. I can’t believe that this is happening, that I’ve just touched a dead person, someone I know, someone my own age.

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