Her apartment didn’t seem to have any evidence from what had happened the last time I was there. Whatever sketches that had been ripped apart were replaced by others already. The only thing that still remained was a very faint pink stain in the spot where I found her sitting on the floor, but I tried to refrain from staring at it, “So your mom sketches?”
“Well thankfully I was smart enough to keep them safe in a box where I put my favorites so they were spared from the massacre a couple days ago. I’ll be right back,” and Charlotte walked off into another room, most likely to be her bedroom.
With her gone, I had to stare at it. Of course I wasn’t staring at it in disbelief that it had happened. I knew it had happened, I wasn’t denying it. She had tried to kill herself, I understood it perfectly. What was making me stare at the stain was the thought of what might’ve happened if I wouldn’t have overheard her dad and Frank, if I would’ve been perhaps a half hour later. What would I have found then?