Wickeds, caption the photo below!
Edith/Maddie: Some idiot displayed my lost glove and posted the pic on the damn neighborhood group. If the cops ever put it together with the body somebody’s going to stumble across soon in the shrubbery and test the glove for DNA, I’m dead. Or, rather, long gone to a lovely Caribbean island sipping a rum drink under the name on my new passport.
Julie: The last time she saw that glove it had been on Glen’s hand as he held on to her car door handle, trying to get her to change her mind, come back into the house talk it through. Again. She hadn’t seen it, or him, since. She looked over at the melting snow pile, and wondered what secrets would be revealed if the weather stayed warm for long enough.
Jessie: Every day for months she had passed along the agreed upon route, looking for all the world like any other woman simply out walking her dog. And for months the signal to grab her go bag and run had not appeared. But this morning, there it was, as plain as the power lines rising up on the ridge, the unmistakable sign of the Black Hand Syndicate.
Liz: To anyone else walking by, the glove might’ve seemed like a funny gesture, some happy-go-lucky passerby spotting a sad, lost object and giving it a chance to be found and reclaimed by its owner. But as soon as I saw it, I knew that wasn’t the case. I knew exactly what it meant. She was back. And somehow, she’d found me.
Barb: It took a fair amount of negotiation with bigger boys to make sure he always sat on the right side of the bus. As it rumbled past, he raised his hand to his absent friend, pressing his palm to the cold glass. “I know where you are,” he would say in his head. “But I won’t tell.” Despite the sobbing mother, the frantic father, the broken sister. “You can trust me. I will keep your secret.”
Sherry: The glove was a distraction. The day the orange string showed up told her the hit was on.
Readers, chime in! What’s your caption?