• (From the diary of Lexi Sullivan)


    I don't know what I was really thinking when I discovered that my mother’s body had been found.. Some say that I was in shock, but the news didn't come as a shock to me at all. I knew that she was dead, from the beginning. I wanted to believe what I thought - that it was an accident - but all the evidence pointed to suicide. Who was I to argue with the authorities, especially since I had nothing to remove all doubt from what I had believed? From what I wanted to believe?

    So I kept silent. I never told anyone that she would have never left if she had any choice whatsoever in the matter - she cared too deeply for my father, for my younger brother, for me, to leave us willingly. Wouldn't she have said goodbye, if in a way that none of us could understand?

    I wanted to believe that I could have seen it coming, and in a sense, I did; I had sensed, in some way, that something would happen that would change everything. I tried to tell myself that it was just paranoia, but I couldn't even begin to start. That feeling - that cold, hollow feeling that I had grown so accustomed to during the last few months - seemed to override the logic that I had been so proud of at one time.

    As I stood there, watching the police pull my mother's corpse into a body bag, I wondered why I couldn't cry. Why was it that the only thing I felt was that same void that I had felt for months?

    Shouldn't all of this have destroyed me? I couldn't accept that I was so cold - so emotionless - that I couldn't grieve for my own mother, at least, not at first. When I finally could accept it, it only confirmed that I was a monster.

    It wasn't until later that I finally realized why I didn't cry. I did my grieving long before her death. I knew that she was close to death, even if she didn’t sense it herself. I knew that somehow, she had seen too much to walk away from everything that she had discovered unscathed.

    Little did I know that it wasn't me who was going to have to pay for her mistakes - at least, not directly. It was my family that suffered the brunt of it all.
    _______________________________________________________________________

    Chapter One:
    Mysterious Arrival


    "Lexi, are you even listening?" asked my friend, Clair, as she tossed back her head, effectively jerking me out of my reverie. I shook my head sheepishly, and then turned around to face her. I could feel my face burn with embarrassment.

    "Sorry, Clair," I murmured, trying to figure out just what she was chattering about so animatedly. "I've been a little distracted lately."

    "Well, you could at least listen. You've been distracted for the last week," she said irritably.

    "Don't be so hard on her, Clair," said a girl who sat in front of us with long, brown hair. I rolled my eyes as her face took on a sympathetic expression that was all-too familiar.
    "She's not going to be paying attention whenever her mother just committed suicide! Do you have to be so hard on her?"

    My mother, as you so kindly pointed out, had nothing to do with it, I thought bitterly, though I could see why she would assume that. It was only natural for one to grieve for a family member's death.

    However, there came a point where an abundance of sympathy gets annoying, and I had reached that point months before.

    So, instead of snapping at the girl, who I realized was only trying to be kind, I smiled as naturally as I could and turned to face her.

    "It's okay, Mia," I said, trying to paint a smile on my face. "She's right, that's no excuse."

    "You shouldn't let Clair walk all over you!" she insisted with a sad smile. "She doesn't know what it's like to lose someone like that - "
    "And neither," I snapped, "do you. Clair and I have been friends for a long time - I'm sure that she knows more about me than you'll ever know. Please, butt out."

    "Fine," she sniffed. "I was just trying to be nice."

    I wanted to apologize to her - at least, a part of me did - but I was so tired of people pitying me. What did they know? Yeah, my mother committed suicide. It wasn't like the entire population of Illinois had to know about it.

    Not that it was surprising. My mother had managed an orphanage outside of Chicago and had been a figurehead for it since before I was born. It was a rather nasty shock that someone as happy, at least, outwardly, with her life as her would commit suicide.

    Clair was the only person who had enough common sense to realize that I didn't feel the need to discuss the topic, and, if the truth were to be told, I was grateful for the fact.

    I still couldn't believe, even after six months of condescending gossip, that she had shot herself in the woods that night. Where were the signs?

    The bigger question was that, If she didn't really kill herself, why was I so inclined to get involved? I was never particularly suicidal, even whenever I had found out that she was dead. Did I really think that solving her murder would get everyone around me to back off, even if, theoretically, she was actually murdered?

    It was safer not to get involved. I knew that. I was certain of that. There was no logical reason why a murderer would come after me if I didn't interfere.

    Was there?
    _______________________________________________________________________

    The next couple of classes went by quickly. It was beyond my comprehension as to why - I was never really interested in school, and the fact that I was easily bored made it a little more difficult to pay attention.

    And, of course, new diversions were becoming easier to come by. Instead of paying attention to my Calculus teacher, Mr. Banton, review logarithms, I was asking myself the same questions over and over again.

    I wanted to say what was on mind, yet I knew that everyone else had the same answers that I had. It would be pointless, and possibly more painful, to have to listen to the public story all over again. There were no fingerprints on the gun, which made it a clear suicide case.

    Was I looking too far into it? It was too soon, too raw a wound, to tell. I could have been in denial from the start.

    Or I could have been right, which was a possibility that I had no desire to explore. I tried to tell myself that it didn't matter, that I was the only one who had to know what I was thinking. That I was the only one who had to question my sanity.

    Despite the logic that I had prided myself with, there were only two things that I was completely, infallibly certain of.

    First, there were certain facts that didn't need to be unearthed, and my mother's death - whether it be suicide or murder - was one of them. Let the dead bury the dead.

    And second, I wasn't an investigator. It wasn't my place to solve this, if it did, indeed, need solving. All I could do was wait until everything settled, then return to whatever became my version of normal.

    I twirled a lock of short, curly brown hair around my fingers, being careful to make it appear like I was actually paying attention. I couldn't help but notice the way that, even during class, people would stare at me; it felt as though they were trying to drill holes into my skull.

    I tried diligently to avoid their sympathetic stares, but I couldn't seem to distract myself from them. Even in Calculus, where most of the time my classmates resented me because I was younger than them, I couldn't escape their pity. It felt like I was suffocating under it, like a boulder was pressed upon my back that I didn't have the strength to carry.

    The only person who didn't look at me in that sickeningly sympathetic manner was an antisocial junior named Nicholas Mitchell, who seemed to take pleasure in making me uncomfortable. He was fascinating, in the sense that most people at least try to act polite towards other people.

    However, he seemed to defy my definitions of normal. He rarely talked, and when he did, it was only to reply in such a manner that the rest of the student body avoided him. Why in the word did someone as crass, as him have such a potent fascination with me? And why was it that he seemed to be amused by the constant annoyances that seemed to plague me?

    I glared at him insolently, trying to force myself to stay in my seat. Who did he think he was? I wasn’t a science experiment that he could study – I was a person. It was galling to have to be examined as though I were a biology project.

    He laughed, obviously noticing my chagrin, and turned around to face the teacher.
    _______________________________________________________________________

    The last bell rang, signaling the end of my torture. I couldn't help but attempt a smile, thinking of how happy I would be to finally get home, away from everyone who couldn't, or wouldn't, understand my position. My brother, Corey, was probably already at home, and our father had taken to working out of the office beside his bedroom about a month after our mother died. They were expecting me, to say the least, and I didn't want to worry either of them.

    I bent over to pick up my books, trying diligently to get out of the classroom before the buses arrived at the school, whenever I noticed that Nicholas was standing at the door, obviously waiting for someone. And I had the most uncomfortable feeling that I could guess who he was waiting for.

    Generally, adolescent girls get excited whenever a guy waits for them after class. However, as I marched systematically towards the door, all I could think was, What the hell does he want now? Wasn't it enough that he seemed to be amused by my emotional turmoil? Didn't he have any respect for personal boundaries?

    Who was I kidding? It was doubtful that he had respect for anything at all.

    "What do you want, Mitchell?" I spat, trying to edge past him. "As you can see, I'm trying to get somewhere, so could you make whatever it is quick?"

    He smirked, and then stepped away from the door. "I wanted to ask you something."

    "Hurry up then," I said with a wave of my hand, my eyes narrowing into a glare.

    "Would you meet me at the Java Hut after school today? I need to talk to you," he said softly, still smiling in that condescending way of his that made me want to kill him. I scowled, and then turned around to face him.

    "Are you trying to ask me out on a date?" I snapped, irritated.

    "Not in the way that you're thinking. I just need to discuss something with you."

    "Then discuss it here. I don't have time for your games - they're annoying and, quite frankly, unnecessary." I brushed past him, satisfied with the defeat I saw in his narrow, brown eyes.

    And then I felt his calloused fingers wrap tightly around my wrist. I tried to wrench my hand from his grasp, but he seemed to possess a strength that I couldn't even imagine. My heart started to pound erratically, though I couldn't understand why - it wasn't as though I was in any danger here. The heat that spread through my body at his touch seemed to make it worse.

    "Let go of me!" I hissed, my free hand trying to pull my arm away from his grasp.

    "Not until you listen to me," he muttered under his breath, as though he were afraid someone would overhear us. "What I need to discuss with you is private. I don't think you want anyone to hear what I have to say."

    "What do you know? And who the hell are you to tell me what I would want to be kept private?"

    He leaned in closer to my face, until his lips were almost touching my ear, his breath tickling the back of my neck. I wanted to push him away, but I knew that I wouldn't have the strength to. My heart pounded even more quickly in my chest; I could feel my cheeks burn as my body temperature skyrocketed.

    "I'm the only person who knows how your mother died."