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I was eleven when I kept my first secret.
I thought Adrienne, who lived in the mansion, was a beautiful, golden princess.
I saw her the day she crawled through the gap in the fence, carrying a knapsack, her blonde hair a halo.
“You can’t tell anyone you saw me,” she said. “It’s our secret.”
She darted through the woods and into a rusted red pickup. The driver looked at me, his gaze burning me with frost. He pressed his forefinger to his lips.
Fear pervaded my dreams. The princess screamed.
Her body was found a week later.