Prologue

Someone knows Amy's secret.

~Three Months Earlier~

“I am so sorry for your loss.”

“So sorry, Amy.”

“Oh, Amy, I’m so sorry to hear about your father.”

“If you need anything, dear, you just call me.”

“Would you like me to bring you some cookies?”

“Amy, honey, I’m so sorry.”

Amy O’Connor closes her eyes.

Sorry. So sorry.

“It’s a terrible thing, what happened to your father.”

She no longer acknowledges the mourners’ condolences as they meander slowly away. Instead her mind floats up high, drifting away from the cemetery with one freshly buried grave, up into the dismal, overcast sky.  The flowers she clutches in her hand--they’re white roses, her favorite--are wilted and slumped limp against her fingers.  Every muscle in her body trembles from famishment and lack of sleep.

“Amy, dear, I feel so terrible for you.”

As if it was you who had pulled the trigger.

A brisk breeze whips the black silk of Amy’s dress around her knees. She sways like a listless weed in the wind as the first drops of a cold autumn storm patter on her head.

She has never felt alone. It’s Tuesday, November 7^th. Her father was murdered two days ago. Amy batters down waves of nausea and the horrible memory that infests her thoughts.

Amy is twenty-one. Barely a woman. Her mother left long ago, leaving her father with a little girl to raise. A little girl who eventually was going to want to buy makeup, need tampons, and kiss boys. A little girl who needed a woman by her side. Her father did try the best he could, but things were missing. A man, no matter how hard he tries, cannot reproduce motherly love.

“Amy O’Connor.”

She is snapped back to the present at the flat, emotionless voice and formal use of her name. An unfamiliar woman stares back at her. Her eyes are cold, unblinking.

“For you.” The woman extends a hand, and in it she holds an unopened envelope. As Amy takes it she notices the unnatural translucence of the woman’s skin; her spidery blue veins pulse visibly beneath her pale complexion.

Amy studies the envelope. The paper is yellow and aged, as if it had been sitting in a desk for years. She reads the perfect, sloping script on the front:

To Amy.

She flips it over. Nothing on the back. After peeling off the seal she briefly glances at its contents; the envelope contains one folded piece of paper.

“Well…thank you, ma’am. I’m afraid we haven’t met before. Are you a friend of my father’s?” Amy looks up.

She is alone. Scanning the cemetery in confusion, Amy frowns. There’s nowhere to go in such a short amount of time. What did she do? Duck behind a grave marker? She shakes her head.

I don’t have time for this.

After glancing around to make sure she is alone, Amy pulls out the paper. As her eyes take in the words written there, her stomach slowly drops. Time diminishes to an excruciating crawl. Her every breath is jagged and shallow. Tears race down her cheeks, stained beige with foundation. She doesn’t bother to brush them off, and they cascade off of her jaw.

Color drains from the quaking fingers that grip the single paper in a chokehold.  Clutching the note to her chest, she runs blindly home in the pouring rain.

Author's Note

Yes, this may be familiar. It's come to this.