9 Megan
I don’t know how long I stand there holding the bloodstained cap, as everything seems to become a blur. I can hear the blood pulsing in my ears, feel my heart fluttering. In my heart of hearts, I know what this is. I know whose it is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the cap before, but at the same time I instinctively know the story behind it. And I know who put it there. How else would a bloodstained young boy’s baseball cap get in our wheeliebin?
There is only one reason, but I can’t quite convince myself it’s true. I have to believe it isn’t. I need to.
There’s no way into our back garden from the road. The houses are so tightly packed together, we have to take the bin out through the garage on bin day. It’s a constant source of frustration — one of those things we overlooked wh
