Two Sides to Every Murder

And then the electricity goes out.

It is easy for someone to completely misunderstand something and ruin everything.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But I can’t let you take this. Not before I talk to my sister.”

I have a nineteen-year-old daughter, Andie. Full name: Miranda.

“Here, let me take a look at them.”

“What are your thoughts on bread?”

“It stands for…Miranda?”

There was no one around to hear her scream

I cried pretty easily back then, whenever I got a bad grade on an assignment or saw a sad movie, or when someone said something mean to me or anyone else, really.

The kiss just happens, like nature, like fate. One second, we’re holding each other, staring at each other, and the next our lips are pressed together, and then parting, and my hands are in Hazel’s hair and hers are around my waist, and I can feel her heart beating against my chest, so fast, like a little bird’s.

She’s just as soft as I thought she’d be. Her lips taste like cherries and vanilla, and it’s unbelievable how I never realized before how those are my favorite flavors. I can’t get enough. I want this kiss, this moment, to last forever.