One Cold Night

thinking how, in a strange way she could never explain, this was proof of her existence. She hadn’t told anyone about the photo; it was hers, and she knew if she said anything it would end up as evidence. They had enough evidence; she was back home, Becky was buried and Peter — her birth father’s name, Peter — was locked up tight. In some ways it was all over, but in other ways it was just beginning. There was a lot to understand. For one thing, why had she needed to find her birth parents in the first place? Discovering that Susan was her mother had been confusing but ultimately good news. She knew now that discovering Peter was bound to be a disaster any way it might have happened, and she also knew that if he hadn’t found her first, she would have gone looking. The impulse to know him was right up there with trusting a total stranger: big mistake. Maybe if she hadn’t been so determined to locate her biological parents, then Susan wouldn’t have blurted out the truth, and Lisa wouldn’t have stormed alone into the night or painted that yellow line or been easy prey for Peter. He had been watching her, skipping stones, and seized an opportunity. What if time had passed, he had never had his chance, and then he’d been hit by a car? Or what if his brain had exploded, fast-forwarding from part crazy to all crazy and landing him in an institution sooner instead of later, keeping him far from temptation? Or what if, for any reason at all, he had just changed his mind? Unlikely, Lisa supposed, her eyes settling on a dried leaf with crinkled edges that had landed gently on Becky’s coffin.
    Becky, Lisa thought, I bet we could have been friends.