Chapter Twenty
Last gasp efforts.
My breath caught in my throat when I opened the message Jamal had sent.
Harlowe is at Brook Hill park, sounds desperate to ‘end it’.
Along with the message were two images. I urged my phone to download them faster, as I dashed through the drizzle to my car, and gasped when I finally opened the files to find two screenshots from a social media account belonging to Harlowe.
I wondered how Jamal had located them so easily. He must have spent hours combing the web. They were dated two days apart, but together they wove a desperate tale that made had adrenaline surging through my system.
In the first post, Harlowe was despondent: I can’t take any more of this life. I give up. Living beneath the shadows of accusatory glares is too much. Most of the comment
