Lorne Evers

Two kids ran from her.

Glassy eyed and transparent,

Her body bore bruises

Of the apparent strangulation.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

She'd never hear those words again.

The sitter, sick and tired of her,

Calling her mother,

And her brother,

And her sister,

And her ex-lover.

"Someone's gonna get this baby."

Flashes of light fill her with guilt

As the sitter watches the dead body

Loaded into a black van,

CORONER, covered in a white sheet.

Husband's screams ring loudly.

His stepson starts crying.

His mother-in-law holds him

As her first born is carted for an autopsy.

Solemnly, they identify her,

Wrapped in each other's arms,

Gasping shallow breaths.

"That's her. That's Lorne."

Twenty-eight and fragile.

Medical examiner notes his findings.

Bruises on her face, ribs, legs.

No sexual assault, no fluids.

Blows to the head caved in the skull,

A fall possibly twisted the ankle,

A knife could've sliced the forearm.

His stomach churns as he prods

This is his job, his life.

His family was destroyed by this,

Yet his work was never done.

"Official C.O.D. is asphyxiation."

Investigators scramble to learn

She was doted on as a child

Though her mother left her father

And took her and her brother.

The move to Philly and the remarriage

Hit her like a bunch of bricks

But resiliently, she excelled in school,

Graduated with her masters in law,

Got pregnant and broken up with

Only to marry and have another child.

She was perfect in all ways,

"So who could want her dead?"

They opened her computer,

Greasy and hot from previous uses.

Scarcely dead twenty-four hours

And they were invading her privacy,

Ripping apart her accounts.

Twitter provided no leads

Since she only used it for politics.

Instagram, used for snooping,

Proved even less successful.

However, on Facebook

Hostility had boiled over.

"Who's Amanda Greene?"

Amanda Greene wore the title

Best friend, like a badge

Though the messages didn't reflect.

She's such a stupid whore.

How could she do that to *****?

Their kid deserves better.

She should rot for what she did.

Ugly words splatter the page.

Lorne's friend since fifth grade,

Who played at recess with her,

Who shared her juice boxes,

"She's the prime suspect?"

But the signs were there

Clearer than a bottle of Fiji.

The accusations,

The slander,

The messages.

The police car rolled out,

All eyes set on one target.

Coming out of the grocery store,

Ms. Greene was met with cuffs.

The bags were tossed aside.

As her car was ransacked, they heard,

"I didn't kill that heartless bitch!"

But there it was,

The rope suspected in her death.

Her son, sitting next to it,

Slept peacefully in his carseat.

Carrying him out,

They handed him to his father,

Lorne's ex-husband,

And realized the thick plot.

The love affair for many years,

The addiction and the rage,

The final straw came when,

"She said she still loved him."

Amanda, in her own words,

Lashed out by finding Lorne,

Punching, kicking, tying the rope.

The fear in her eyes as she realized

Her best friend, her oldest friend!

Et tu, Brute? Oui! Oui!

Amanda stoically told the tale

Older than time and history itself.

The tale of love strained

Under the weight of technology,

And then, even more stoically,

"And I'd do it again too."