40Did you feel the miracle when we saw a shooting star?
Later in the afternoon, I sat on my bed, as more questions hit me like darts on a target. Skye’s death was a mystery I had to solve and all the answers had to be in her journal.
I was shaking so hard, it took me forever to get the knot untied. I was conflicted since she had told me to burn it. But my need to find answers trumped my guilt.
The pages had vague dates, like “September something” or “Sometime in October,” or places, like “Venice Beach or thereabouts.”
The handwriting was large on the small pages. Sometimes as beautiful as calligraphy, with drawings of bizarre creatures. Sometimes it was just scribbled, barely legible.
There were drawings of George, her cat, alive and then one of him being eaten by the coyote. There we
