Karen was a contradiction.
She hated Grimashaw with a passion. Often the day would end with them yelling at each other. Faces red from anger as they circled each other like caged lions. The rest of the camp gave them a wide berth when it happens. It usually ended with each of them storming off to opposite sides of the camp, arms crossed and words poised on their tongues like razor blades.
But in the morning they would stand next to each other by the fire, hands wrapped around warm cups of coffee, as they talked quietly with one another.
She scoffed at the idea of love.
To her it was a fairy tale. Something that never actually happens. She would pretend to gag behind the back of Molly as she gushed to Mary Beth about Dutch. Reading the romance novels in stupid voices and laughing at how ridiculous it was. What did she need love for that riches couldn't buy.
But in the night, she would sit alone by the fire. Eyes watching the flames dance as she sang quietly to herself a song of longing for a love long gone. How she would watch the way her friends would eye each other across the camp, face full of sadness. In how she lost herself in a bottle after he was gone.
She hears his laugh in the song of the birds. Feels his touch on the wind. Hears his voice echo through her soul. Anger curls through her. She smashes a bottle against the wall. She leaves that night, eyes full of fire, a gun in her hand.
The cool breeze from the river pulls at her curls as she stands on its bank. Her arm hangs by her side, gun held loosely in her hand. She can still smell the gun powder. Hear the ringing of the shot and the church bell. She hears his voice on the wind and she smiles.