Free Scream by Mike Dellosso

know."
    Wendy laughed. "What? Like how to stay so busy working
and taking care of children that you don't have time to break
the law? I'd like one day of irresponsibility." She looked at
Cheryl and had a mischievous grin on her face. "I think we
deserve that, don't you?"
    Cheryl laughed and smiled wide. It'd been awhile since she'd
smiled like that. It felt good. "Yes. Definitely. One day would
be all it would take to get it out of my system. Then I could go
back to being a responsible taxpayer again. You think we could
go talk to the officer and arrange something? Maybe convince
him to turn his head for one day?"
    But as if the policeman behind the wheel had heard her, the
cruiser slowly pulled away from the curb, stopped at the intersection, and made a left-hand turn away from the park.
    Wendy sighed. "Well, there goes our chance. Looks like we'll
have to go on being boring, stressed-out, overworked, underpaid, responsible citizens. Whoopee."
    Cheryl patted Wendy's back in mock sympathy. "Maybe
some other time. We'll get our chance to play Thelma and
Louise someday."

    9:44 p.m. 42 Broad Court.
    Crouched in the shadow of the boxwood, back against cold
concrete, judge waited for Virginia Grisham to walk into his
trap. He'd been hunkered down here for nearly fifteen minutes,
and his knees were getting stiff.
    Six more minutes. Give or take. She better show up this time.
    The air was chilly. Judge rubbed his hands together, fighting
off a shiver. His mind went to Amber. He'd have to take her a
blanket tonight. He felt bad for not showing up last night like
he'd promised. He'd actually laid awake thinking about her,
wondering if she'd found a way to stay warm. His concern for
her well-being suddenly struck him as odd. Anyone else would
never have taken her more food, would never have checked up
on her, and would never, ever take her a blanket. They wouldn't
care about her comfort, whether she was cold or scared or lonely.
But he cared. For the hundredth time, he reminded himself,
convinced himself that he wasn't like others-and he knew the
type. He wasn't a monster.
    His thoughts then went back to 1974 and Katie McAfee.

    1974
    "I love you." There, it's out. As soon as the words leave his
mouth he feels a sense of freedom and knows that he meant
every syllable of it. Every letter (every jot and tittle). He's
never really known love from his parents. Sure, being churchgoing folk they talk about love enough. God is love. Love your
enemies. Love one another. Love your husband. Love your wife.
Love your parents. But live it? Really flesh it out so there is no
mistaking that the love they talk about is as real as the Bible they read it from? Hardly. His father's brand of love is chiseled in
stone. Rules. Dos and don'ts. Thou shalt nots (probably carried
down from the fiery mountain in the arms of Moses himself).
And his mother's idea of love is to force food and good hospitality down your throat until you're nauseous (pig-stuffed),
all the while smiling a plastic grin and slinging Christianese
around like it's the gosh-darn national language or something.
But when he speaks those three words to Katie-finally speaks
them out loud (he's been practicing in his head for weeks)-he
knows what real love is. There's no mistaking it.

    He takes a small step back, half expecting her to laugh at
him, half expecting a hand across his cheek and the sting, both
to his face and his heart, that will follow. But neither come.
Instead, Katie takes an equally small step toward him, leans in,
and presses her lips against his.
    The kiss doesn't last more than three seconds, but it seems
like an eternity. He wishes it will last for eternity (forever and
ever, amen and amen). It would be a very satisfactory heaven.
And during these three seconds he is intensely aware of three
things. One, the tenderness and softness of her lips (like
pillows where angels rest their heads). Two, the sweetness of
her breath