Whatever is burning up inside of me, I know I’m partly to blame. I’ve been fanning the flames by imagining Mrs. Hamilton poisoning Scottie ever since Jake planted the idea in my head. I even asked Rod, on the ride home (and yes, he was more than ticked off at waiting so long), if he thought the cook who has worked for us for the last two years could be capable of such a thing. He’s never met this one, but he said sure, and that people are always capable of stupid acts of grotesque horror when acting in their own selfish interests. That wasn’t really what I was looking for, but it told me his frame of mind was no more reliable than mine. So I just shut up, petted sweet Scottie, and let the flames within grow.
There’s a really cool thing about our front door. It’s hugely heavy—super tall, nearly double-wide and at least triple thick compared to most. When you slam it, the whole freakin house shakes. It is impossible to do on accident, so if it’s slammed, you know someone meant to slam it. Fortunately, in my house, you are allowed such shows of utter infuriation, or at least my dad is. I only get away with it when used sparingly. Read the rest of this entry






