“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.

“Mom,” Charlene…