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My name is Carla and I am Caroline’s daughter. My mother is now gone, but I have proof of her innocence. I have a letter that she wrote telling me so and my mother has never lied to me. I will figure out who killed that painter, if it’s the last thing I do.
I could never understand why I felt I didn’t belong. I was flighty and unsettled in a house of people who were calm and steadfast. I knew I should be grateful when my aunt and uncle took me in when I was orphaned, but still something just never felt right.We lived on a ranch and worked from dawn until dusk. They ate and slept and barely spoke of anything outside of the cattle, the price of beef and the trouble getting good help.
I could never shut up. I wanted to talk. I loved to talk of books and films and art and pictures and clothes and style and shoes and places and everywhere I wanted to go. Like a bird in a cage, I would beat my wings and chirp away until somebody would finally throw a towel over me and turn off the light.
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