I read it over and over again hoping the words would change. No matter how many time I read it, I just couldn’t fathom it. My own father, a serial killer.

When mom asked me to clean out his desk, I found a diary in a locked drawer. Thirty-two. Thirty-two victims buried up and down the east coast.

How could this have happened? He was a great father. Always there for us. Never said a bad word towards anybody. As far as I could tell, everyone loved him.

“You found it,” my mother said. I looked up to see her holding a knife, “Put it back.”

I set the book in the drawer and stood, “You knew?”

“Who’s idea you think it was?”

“Yours? But why?”

“Cause you kids made us crazy. Tell your father I’m sending him your brothers,” she lounged forward.

I grabbed her wrist trying to pry the knife away. My hand over hers on the handle, but she wouldn’t let go.

I jerked her arm forward hoping it would fall to the floor. But the knife plunged into her stomach. With her last breath, she told me she loved me.

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