Haha, that's pretty clever," says Walter. "I guess that's one way to make a mountain bigger."

There's a moment of awkward silence as I look at him, smiling, and he looks back at me.

"Hey," he says, "you know my name, but I don't know yours… what is it?"

"...Lori," I lie. "It's… Lori. That's my name. Lori."

"That's a pretty name."

There's another silence, this time longer. I look at him blankly, board. He smiles back.

"Well, I'm gonna go," he says, picking up his backpack. "It was nice meeting you, Lori."

I wave him goodbye and he waves back and leaves. I stay at the top of the mountain and take my lunch out of my teal and yellow string bag by Nike, $38, and begin to eat. I go through a sandwich, almond bar, and cranberry juice, which is red and makes my tongue red and because of this I giggle. Then, I spend a little over an hour trying to get every last trace of mud off of my boots.

I descend back down the mountain, and sit on a park bench in the park area when I reach the bottom. I rest for a while and use my phone camera to make sure my hair is in good shape.

I notice a park ranger setting up a cage. Curious, I approach him. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Putting up squirrel traps," he says without looking up. "We've had a real problem with them lately. There's too many."

"Oh, okay," I say, tilting my head a little to the side.

When he doesn't say anything else, I go back to my bench and inspect my boots again to make sure I didn't get any mud of them from the walk back down. After this, I look back up at the park ranger. He's gone, now, and the trap is set up.

I'm about to stand up and start to head on home, but then I notice a squirrel scurry across the ground, come to the front of the trap, look at it for a moment, and then go to get the food that is inside. Automatically, the trap closes, and the squirrel runs around in a panic, trying to get out.

I have an idea. I look around, making sure the coast is clear, and then walk over to the trap. I casually pick up the cage and stuff it into my backpack. Luckily, it fits, albeit only barely. I hear the squirrel scratching away at the metal trap, trying to get out, and I smile at just how helpless it is.

I use my bus pass to get home, and then go to the garage, locking the door behind me. Lana leaves her toolbox in here, so I have a lot of tools at my disposal: wrenches, nails, screwdrivers, chisels, rasps, the works.

I torture the squirrel for almost three hours, but then I grow bored, so I just end up taking its organs and innards and nailing them to the garage walls, sitting down and admiring my handiwork for a little over half an hour, then taking them down and throwing them out so nobody knows what I did and then leave the garage.

The doorbell rings. I'm helping Father cook dinner, and he puts down the big bowl he had been stirring in to answer it.

I'm chopping onions, but oddly enough, I don't cry while doing so. I overhear the conversation at the front door while I work.

"Oh, hello there," I hear Father say.

"Hello, Mr. Loud. My name is Patrick. I don't know if you know me, but I live right across the street from you."

I know who Patrick is—he's the twenty-year-old son of our neighbors. He still lives with his parents, and he's a nature nut.

"Yes, I think we've met before. What brings you to my humble abode?"

"Well, I just wanted to have a brief word with you about your cat."

"Oh, Cliff? What about him?"

"Well, you see, domestic cats have had a catastrophic—no pun intended, sorry—effect on the local bird population. You see, American songbirds never really evolved any defences against them. Cats kill them for sport, thousands a day in this town alone, and it could have effects on the local ecosystem that have yet to be seen. Your one cat alone probably kills over a dozen birds a month."

"Oh?"

"Yes, sir. And that's not even counting all of the baby birds that will die because their parents have been murdered and can't bring food back to them."

"Well, that does sound very problematic. But, to be honest with you, all I really care about is letting my children learn to take care of a pet and have responsibility for it. Are you trying to tell me they shouldn't be allowed to do that?"

"No, of course not. All I'm asking is that you keep your cat indoors. You do it during the winter, so why not during the spring and summer, too?"

"Well, that seems awfully restrictive. Cliff loves going outside. He's an animal—he likes to roam freely. It doesn't sound right to force him to stay inside when the weather is nice."

"Are you suggesting that your cat's sense of freedom is more important than the life of dozens of Royal Woods birds?"

"I'm just saying that my children matter to me more than the children of some bird."

I hear Patrick sigh.

"Patrick," says Father, "may I ask why you suddenly care so much about the birds of Royal Woods?"

"Funny you should ask. You're the only one with a cat on this street, and for the past couple of months, there have been times when I've spotted dead birds on my front porch. Just this morning when I went outside, in fact, I found a blue jay mutilated and gutted. My little brothers saw it, and they were petrified. I don't necessarily care extremely much about all of the town's birds, per say, but I guess I'm just trying to reason with you on why it's a good idea to keep your cat inside."

"Cliff would never do that! He doesn't even like hunting normally, and even if he did, I know he wouldn't do those kinds of things to birds after catching them. It must be some other neighborhood cat."

I poke my head out into the living room. I see Patrick shaking his head.

"I don't think so, Mr. Loud. I've never seen any other cats around here except for yours."

"Well, it's not us. You have the wrong household."

"I don't think I do, Mr. Loud. At any rate, though, thank you for listening to me. I hope you'll give it some thought and reconsider letting your cat outside."

Father closes the door and goes back to the kitchen. He rolls his eyes, and we get back to cooking.

"Some nuthead," he says, putting a dish in the oven. "Cliff wouldn't do anything like that, right?"

"Nope," I say, and smile. "I wonder who did do it."

I don't know when I lost it. Maybe it's been a steady decline that has been going on for many years. Maybe it started the day I was born.

I have conflicting memories. I remember one time when I was eight and Lincoln was three. We were alone in the living room, and I was playing peek-a-boo with him, and out of nowhere I grabbed his fist, put it in my mouth, and bit down as hard as I could. Nothing in particular compelled me to do it, and I felt no regret or remorse, even when he started to cry worse than I've ever seen him cry before. Luckily, he was too young to remember this. I was more careful from the point forward.

Then again, I remember a rare time when I was eleven and gave my favorite doll to Lola to cheer her up after Lana had ruined her favorite doll. I felt a genuine desire to help Lola, even if it met that I'd lose my favorite toy. That feeling is something I've lost over the years.

Ever since I could remember being able to talk and walk, I pretended to be something I was not. I pulled the cat's tail, and got yelled at for doing so. Instead of stopping pulling the cat's tail, like most people in my situation would do, I instead elected to only do it when nobody was watching. I cheated at a board game. When Father told me that cheating was bad and to not do so, instead of stopping my cheating, I only made sure to do it when I knew I could get away with doing it without getting caught. I haven't been caught cheating ever since.

Presently, we're eating dinner, the same dinner that I helped cook. I usually help out around the house because, one, it helps me keep up the illusion that I'm somebody who's kind and puts others before herself, and, two, I really don't have much else to do. I don't find reading or playing games or watching television (other than, of course, the local news because they sometimes talk about Coyle's death) entertaining or amusing. I'm bored a lot of the time, and usually looking for something to do around the house.

I look at Lincoln. Though he is my brother, and though we share the DNA, we are polar opposite human beings. Lincoln is innocent and innocuous; he is bloodless, clean, a virgin to violence. No matter how much I wash my hands, they will remain bloody. No matter how hard I try to work on clearing my mind, it will always remain rotted and twisted.

I want to change. I really do. Ever since I was a little girl, I lied, cheated, and wished nothing but the worst for my enemies No one, however, ever suspected me, because I've lived my entire life behind a mask, ever since my earliest memories; I acted sweet and dumb, though I am neither of these things, not by a long shot. This is how I have always lived my life; this is how I have always dealt with the tangible; this is what I constructed each and every one of my movements around.

I've come to accept what I am, but that doesn't mean that I've come to like what I am.

Looking at Lincoln from across the table, I realize now that he is my only path to salvation, my only hope to change who I am. I don't want to spend the rest of my life pretending to be someone who I'm not. At the same time, though, I don't want to admit my true nature. It would come as a shock to my family, and even though they love me (a sentiment I am unable to return) they would immediately contact the police for my killing of Coyle. Even if I leave the part out about my killing (which I don't want to do; if I confess my true nature, I only want to confess all of it), they'd begin to suspect me of being the murderer.

No, Lincoln is my only way to change. I have a plan: In private, I'll confess everything to him. He's sweet, he's kind, and he only wants the best for me. Only Lincoln, I suspect, would be capable of keeping the secret for my safety. Once I get it all off my chest, once I know that I am not alone in knowing my terrible secret, I can begin to get better. I can begin to turn into that sweet, innocuous girl that everything thinks I am.

I just need to start by confessing my sins to Lincoln.