June 30, 2017 | Julie Dalton
I sat alone in my local coffee shop, like I do so often. Large latte, 2% milk. A table near an outlet for my laptop. Twenty minutes in, tears streamed down my cheeks. If someone looked my way, I faked a sneeze, pretending I had a cold.
I had just killed someone I loved, and I couldn’t contain my guilt—or my grief.
Just to be clear, the deceased was a character in my novel