It was over a week before Emma could bring herself to
open Rachel’s journal again. She’d finally finished cleaning the kitchen,
having forced Andrew to load the dinner dishes in the dishwasher, and her
shoulders were tight after enduring his incessant whining. She now sat on the
back porch in the gathering shadows. Rolling her shoulders forward and back,
she let out her breath slowly. Chin in hand, she flipped to the next entry.
Thursday 10/28/99
I finally understand why Ana is so troubled. No wonder!
