Paper Valentine by Brenna Yovanoff

with a carved headboard and built-in drawers underneath. The scrapbook is in the one closest to the wall, shoved all the way in the back. It’s a three-ring photo album, with a lumpy handmade paper cover, cream-colored with real rose petals and dried ferns mixed in with the pulp. It would look elegant, like something for a wedding, but Lillian has drawn all over it with a marker, making the dried flowers look spiky and ominous.
    Inside, the book is filled with articles cut out of the
Ludlow Herald
and printed from various online news sites. The last item in the book is a one-page follow-up article from December, ten months after Monica’s body was found. After that, the rest of the pages are blank.
    I sit on the carpet with the book open in my lap. In the margins, Lillian has added all these little notes and comments, mostly cross-referencing people and places.
    It’s detailed and methodical, but that part doesn’t really surprise me; Lillian was always writing things down. After she was sick, it got worse. She started keeping this little purple notebook full of numbers—how many steps she’d walked, pounds she’d lost, calories, carbs, grams of sugar she’d eaten. Breaths she’d taken.
    No, the shocking part of the scrapbook is the absolute gruesomeness of it.
    “This must have taken forever,” I say, touching a bold five-pointed star that she’s scrawled next to the clipping of Monica’s obituary. “How come you never told me about it?”
    Lillian laughs, and it’s not as harsh or as mean as it could be. “You would have just said I was being creepy and then changed the subject.”
    I nod, because it’s probably even true. The book is one of the creepiest things I’ve ever seen.
    Suddenly, from upstairs, there’s a faint metallic jingling, barely audible, but I freeze, listening. It’s the sound of a key in the front door. The door opens, then closes again, and the ceiling echoes with the sound of footsteps overhead.
    “It’s cool,” Lillian says, leaning over the scrapbook. “Just don’t make any noise. It’s not like she’s going to come down here or anything.”
    I’m pretty sure she’s right, but I get up and close the door anyway, before picking up the book and heading for the window. Lillian was a lot taller than me, and I’m not sure how to get myself back into the yard.
    I’m trying to figure out the best way to climb out, when upstairs, another door opens and I can hear Mrs. Wald talking to someone. And then comes the sound of frantic, scrabbling feet. I recognize it immediately. Our dog, Joan, does the same noisy, ecstatic dance any time you shake the Milk-Bone box.
    There’s an explosion of barking right outside Lillian’s door—the huge, booming kind of barking that only comes from something the size of a pony—and Lillian gasps and makes a grab for me, pushing me toward the window.
    I turn to stare at her. “Your mom got a dog?”
    She opens her eyes wide and gives me a hard shove. “I didn’t know!”
    I scramble for the window, trying to boost myself up through the opening, but it’s too high and I can barely even get my head level with the flowerbed.
    My heart is pounding in my throat, and now I can hear Lillian’s mom on the stairs, yelling for the dog to be quiet. The storm of barking doesn’t even slow down.
    “Shut up!” she yells, and this time I can tell she’s right outside the door.
    I toss the scrapbook out into the yard and swing one foot on top of the headboard. Then, with my toe braced on one of the carved wooden roses, I shove myself face-first into the snowball bushes in front of the house, rolling over and pulling my legs up.
    Behind me, the barking is suddenly much, much louder, and I lie flat, desperate not to make any noise. I can just see the top of Mrs. Wald’s head as she comes into the room, and while she’s staring in the direction of the closet, I slide the window shut, then snatch the scrapbook up and run.
    I pelt across the street into