Dead Men don't talk Chapter One: They're aint no rest for the wicked

         No. This can't be, I thought I was dead. I am dead. I must be. If you're shot in the heart by your boyfriend, you're definitely dead. But not for me.
 I manage to stand up, wobbling a little. All around me is dark, and I hear the sounds of cars and police sirens filling the night city air with dreadful music. I try to take a step towards my messenger bag that I can miracoously see in the moonlight.
 Stretching, I grab my flashlight and flip the switch to on. It doesn't budge. Instead, a pice of paper falls like a feather down onto the ground. I pick it up right when my flashlight does start to work.
 What I see on the piece of paper is enough to make me panic. I never panic.
 In blood red letters lies the name of my client: Marcy Delgata. My best friend who was being stalked by her ex-boyfriend. I give a silent scream and take to deep breath to calm myself down again.
 Instict tells me to flash my flashlight down on the ground beside me. I'm glad I do. He lies down on the ground, his once attractive face once attractive. I start crying. No. This can't be. My boyfriend lies down on the ground, crumpled in awkward angles. His wavy brown hair and green eyes bring all too much recogniton to me that I want to scream so bad. Carved on his forehead is my name: Max Sherlock.
 Then the memory comes rushing towards me. I tried to kill my boyfriend, but he threw in the water. I should be dead.