“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.
Standing Room Only 