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Mary Maloney Short Story

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“I never did get caught for killing Patrick.” Mary Maloney sat by the fireplace, her frail head tilted against the lined leather chair, listening to the whispers of the fire. She closed her eyes, her hand resting thoughtfully against her cheek, remembering the feel of the cold leg of lamb held firmly in her delicate hands. She was always remembering, especially in her old age. “Mother,” her son, nearly twenty now, spoke gently, “save your breath, you haven’t long now.” His eyes were glazed over, mouth slightly ajar -- as much as he wanted his mother to save her strength… he’d never heard the end of this particular story. Mary had always strived to be honest with him, and, when they had to move because their secret had been discovered, Mary had patiently explained why. Never had she dared to tell the whole story. Mary’s eyes softened, the fire reflecting into their crisp blueness -- she looked like an angel. She turned to her son, “it’s time you heard the whole story.” She closed her eyes, remembering. “It was 1957, you were barely five years old,” she laughed, “you were a wild one, all full of lightning and fire. You were a good kid.” Mary opened her eyes, looking back at the dusty portrait of herself and another man on the wall, “I had been seeing the lead detective from your father’s murder investigation -- of course I knew who had done it, but he was a kind man, and I enjoyed his company. Jack Noonan was a gentle, intelligent man, and by that point I didn’t fear

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