The night before she died, I took my journal to Mum, to show her what would happen if she decided to tell Fern not to give me her baby. It was the first time I’d seen her in ten years. Ten years! It had started out well. Mum had seemed overwhelmed to see me. Her eyes had filled with tears and she’d actually gasped. That had been nice.

This is your chance, I’d thought. Make up for lost time, Mum. Show me that your brain injury knocked some sense into you.

I would have forgiven her. I would have let bygones be bygones.

But you know what she said?

“Don’t take Fern’s baby.”

Ten years. That’s what she said.

Can anyone blame me for what I did?

She didn’t fight me. Why would she? The last time I’d tried to kill her, she’d only ended up with a brain injury. We both knew I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

* * *

I sit back in my chair and read over the journal entry I have just written. This is what they want, obviously. Everyone. The police. Fern and Wally. My prison psychologist. Documented proof that I am to blame for everything. Good luck with that.

I rip out the pages and tear them into confetti. On a whim, I throw the pieces up and let them rain down on me. Poof. I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to provide them with documented proof to collude against me. For what? I did everyone a favor. Billy was a pervert and Mum should have been dead sixteen years ago.

And as for Fern’s baby—I’m the only one who cares enough about her to not want her to be raised by an imbecile. A pair of imbeciles! Time and time again, people have rallied against me. Now I know I have no one. Not even Fern. Fine by me.

I open my diary on a fresh page and poise my prison-issued suicide-proof pen. I have another entry to make. I’ll start with Fern’s recent interest in my insulin dosage and how I administer it. I’ll say how she and Mum hadn’t been getting along and she’d been resenting having to visit her every week. Then I’ll mention how Fern had always loved my bracelet. And how, finally, a few months ago, I’d agreed to lend it to her. What do you think of that, Fern?

I smile. I hope she’s enjoying her time with my baby. Because once this journal is in circulation, she won’t have her long. I’m telling you, Fern might be the librarian … but I’m the one who can spin a tale.