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"Why did she really do it?" asked Clara, seeing where this was going

"Turns out the playwright is famous," said Myrna "But not in the way you’d hope It’s John Fle And yet, there was a s really

Myrna waited

Clara looked off, trying to place the na

"Is it someone we’ve met?" she asked, and Myrna shook her head "But we know him?"

Myrna nodded

And then Clara had it Headlines Television iet a picture of the littleled into court

How different realwas famous indeed

Ruth closed the last page of the script and laid a blue-veined hand on the stack of paper

Then, s in the hearth and held the script over it until her thin skin sizzled But she couldn’t do it

"Stay here," she co a s to her knees she hacked at the earth Cutting away at the grass Digging deeper, fighting the ground for every inch, as though it knew her intention and was resisting But Ruth didn’t give up If she could have dug down to the bedrock, she would have Finally she was deep enough for her purpose

Picking up the script, Ruth placed it in the hole Then she covered it up, shoving the dirt in with her hands Sitting back on her heels, kneeling under the night sky, she wondered if she should say so A thin prayer A curse?

"And now it is now," she whispered, quoting her own poe is here,

and after all it is nothing new;

it is only a ot to her feet and stared down and thought about what she’d done And what he’d done

Ato Arht Maybe it would stay buried

Ruth went inside, locking the door behind her