Gemma was a good girl, once. She hit trouble after her mom died. Parties. Bad boys. She was gorgeous, but her genes couldn’t compensate for the liquid abuse. From liquor to drugs, she never said no.
I passed her on the stairs. Bleary eyes. Ripped skirt. A flash of strength. “I’m moving.”
Thumping furniture, emptying closets. Quick actions, like a darting rabbit.
Two guys slunk upstairs. ‘Student Movers’ on their shirts. Overhead, loud footsteps, thumps. A final crash.
They carried down a futon, large and bulging. As it slid on the landing, a thin, frail wrist caught the light.