Sarah Benadine is Dead

Chapter III, Part III

He knew it was stupid. He should have gotten rid of the thing weeks ago. He should've done what she said. He certainly shouldn't have looked. This was all going to go sour on him.

But then maybe it didn't matter. It already had gone sour on him, hadn't it? Sarah was dead. That was sour. Sour like spoiled milk. And he could've...could've what? Stopped it? Saved her? He wasn't so sure of that. He hadn't known. He hadn't known then what he knew now. But Sarah had. He wondered how long she'd known.

Disappear.

He hadn't done what she'd ask. He wasn't sure he could. Not all of it, at least. But he had to get rid of this. It had to be gone before anyone saw. That much he could do.

Please, please, disappear.

If they found out his involvement, they'd be after him. He had no illusions. They'd find him, he was sure. Maybe they were already coming. He didn't think so, but he couldn't be sure. No way to be sure. He should leave. But something told him it wouldn't matter. And he couldn't leave anyway; she'd told him to, but he couldn't. Not now, not like this.

But he had to get rid of this cursed thing. Now. Today.

He passed his hand over the cover, opening it up. For one last time, Jackie Gordon beheld the familiar thin, prim handwriting that had written Property of Sarah Harriet Benadine on the first page of the diary.