Sweet Little Lies by J.T. Ellison Read Free Book Online Page A

any trace of him from this site immediately. I know it is
difficult to do; Smail466 has been the harbinger of many excellent
tips and stories since the inception of this blog. But it cannot be
helped. He must be exorcised. Such a shame. That moniker, THE
BUTCHER OF MONS, was just so lovely. I doubt the Belgian
authorities ever realized the double entendre when they bestowed
the name.
    But let that be a lesson to all you
newcomers. Smail466 made a tactical error and broke one of the
RULES. He left that print behind in New York fifteen years ago.
Always wear gloves, on your hands and on your pricks, mes amis. Why
does something so simple become the downfall for so many of us?
    Keep On Killin’, and be careful! Over!
     
     
     
    KILLING CAROL ANN
     
    Spinetingler Magazine Fall 2006; First
Thrills: High-Octane Stories from the Hottest Thriller Authors,
edited by Lee Child, Forge Books 2010
     
    I’ve just killed Carol Ann. Sweet, innocent
Carol Ann. Her blond hair flows down her back and trails in the
spreading pool of blood. What have I done?
    ***
    I’ve known Carol Ann for nearly my whole
life. Every memory from my childhood is permeated by the blond
angel who moved in across the street when I was five or so.
Skipping up the street after the ice cream truck, getting lost in
the shadows during a game of hide and seek, watching her sit in the
window of her pink room, brushing that glorious hair. We were two
peas in a pod, two sides of the same coin. Best friends forever.
Forever just turned out to be an awful long time.
    Our relationship started as benignly as you’d
expect. I’d seen the moving truck leave, knew that a family had
taken the Estes’ house. Mrs. Estes died, left her son with bills
and a dozen cats. I missed the cats. I’d wondered about the family,
then went back to my own world.
    Carol Ann spied me sitting on our front step,
twirling my fingers through the dandelions in the flowerbeds. Mama
had sent me out to pluck the poor, insignificant weeds from the
ground, worried they’d ruin her prized flowers. Mama’s flowerbeds
were local legend. The best in three states. At least that’s what
the members of the garden club said about them. Full to the brim
with the heady blooms of gardenias, azaleas, jasmine, roses, sweet
peas, hydrangea, daylilies, iris, rhododendrons, ferns, fertile
clumps of monkey grass, a smattering of black-eyed Susans… the list
went on and on. A green thumb, Mama had. She could make any flower
grow and peak under her watchful gaze. All but me, that is. Her
Lily.
    I was crying about something that day, I
don’t remember what. It was past 90 degrees, a sweltering summer
afternoon. A shadow cast darkness across my right foot. The sudden
shade caused a momentary cooling, so I looked up to see what had
caused it. A strange girl stood on the sidewalk in front of the
A-frame house I grew up in. A yellow haired goddess. When she
spoke, I felt a rush of love.
    “Hey girl,” she said. “Would you like to
play?”
    “Do I wanna play?” I answered, suddenly numb
with fright. I’d never had a playmate before. Most folks’ kids
steered clear of me. Mama’s garden club friends didn’t bring their
spawn to visit with me while they played canasta under the
billowing tent in the backyard. The nearest child my age was a
bed-ridden boy who smelled funny and coughed constantly. Mama made
me go over there once, but after I screamed as loud as I could and
pulled his hair, she didn’t make me go back. There was no one
else.
    “Are you simple or something?” the girl
asked.
    “Simple?”
    “Oh, never mind.” She turned her back and
started away toward the river, skipping every third step. She wore
a white dress with a pink ribbon tied in the back in a big bow—the
kind I’d only ever wear on Easter, to go to church with Mama. Even
from behind, she was perfect.
    “Wait!”
    My voice rang as true and strong as it ever
had, deep as a church bell. She stopped, dead in her tracks, and
turned to