No Show

“I didn’t think you were going to show,” I told April.  I restrained myself from crossing my arms and glaring at her.  She was supposed to be at the party three hours ago so she could help me with the last-minute cleaning and décor set up.  I halted the moment tears starting pouring down her face.  I took a deep breath so I wouldn’t snap.  Tardiness was common for April, the tears were not.  I didn’t want to cause any extra harm to her fragile psyche.   

“Tell me what happened,” I said gently as I led her to the nearest bench. 

“There was an accident.  I know I should have called, but we were in the hospital and I was trying to contact my parents.  Is there anything I can do to help?” 

I waffled in between believing her and chalking this up to another one of the stories she so often told.  Sympathy won me over because I have had my share of traumatic experiences and wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt.  After listening to her tale of woe, I sent April on her way and hopefully back to the hospital. 

The next day when the newspaper landed on my driveway, I was shocked.  April was front and center, but not for the reasons I was expecting.  She had been in the hospital, but she was the one who caused the accident.  She was now a suspected murderer for her role in the bus crash. 


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