“Ms. Jones!” The reporter yelled out. “When did you know Arlene was a serial killer?”
As odd as it might sound, I’d lived through 3 deaths at Arlene’s hands, survived the barrel of her gun by offering her friendship, gave her a job as my bodyguard, and endured 30 years living in the same mansion with her.
I’d survive paparazzi that had as little respect for the dead as I had for Arlene.
My hands clasped in prayer, I looked up at a man with a lopsided smirk. There were cameras ready to take the photo of the century. My eyes teared. As if I were Mother Mary at Jesus’ feet, I said, “I forgive you.”
Reporters scribbled, I sobbed, head in hands while the inconsiderate reporter was dragged from the church by two of the bodyguards who had worked under Arlene’s command for 15 of those 30 years.
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