It's no fucking coincidence that an entire family gets wiped out on the same day—well, not the entire family since they decided to spare me. And no one bothered to investigate. Not a single person thought it was worth digging into.
It was all planned. Every damn detail. From the staged car accident to the assassination at our house. Whoever orchestrated it was a mastermind. A plan like that takes days to devise and months to execute, and they had all the time in the world because we never saw it coming.
I was only five when they ripped my perfect life to shreds. People say nothing's perfect, but my life was. I had a mom—one who'd give up the world just to see me smile. A dad—my very own Superman, who would sit through every pretend tea party and listen to me ramble on about the same Barbie episode for the hundred-and-oneth time.
A tear slips down my cheek, but I wipe it away quickly. Enough. You've cried for the past nineteen years. It's time to get justice. For Mom. For Dad.
"Daddy, Daddy, wake up! What's this red stuff on your shirt?" I tug at his hand. There's red everywhere. Why won't Daddy wake up? Maybe he's playing a game.
Two men stand in our living room. I can only see one of their faces; the other wears a half-face mask. They're arguing, but I think they're part of Daddy's game.
"She's seen my face, man," says the one without the mask.
"I'm not going to let you kill her," the masked man replies, his gaze heavy on me. I shudder. He's scary, even with part of his face hidden.
"We have no other option." The man without the mask points a black toy gun at me. Dad probably bought it for him. I prefer pink.
The masked man shifts the gun away from me. "She's just a child."
"Dude, she's going to be a problem later…"
And he was right—though it took nineteen years for that problem to surface.
Every time I close my eyes, I see his face—the one who ripped my happiness away. The reason I force a smile every fucking day, pretending like everything's fine, when, deep down, I'm anything but.
I started investigating my family's assassination when I was nineteen, but eventually set it aside. Momma Shar thought it was best if I focused on college, and I listened—well, mostly. Part of me never let it go. Now, I want to dive back into it completely, but there's work, there's my life… it's not that simple anymore.
The soft, bright light from my LED clock illuminated the papers scattered across the table. It's 10:28 PM. I've been sitting here for fucking five hours and I've found nothing.
My face sank into my palms. Where do I go from here? How do I prove that the same people who killed my dad were the ones behind my mom's so-called accident?
Mom was a corporate lawyer. After the crash, the accident reconstruction report claimed she was under the influence of alcohol. But I know that's a lie. Mom never drank. Even though I was just a kid, I knew her well enough to be sure of that. Alcohol was never a part of her life.
The same day my mom died in that crash was the same day those two men came into our house and killed the only person I had left—my dad. Everything is connected. I know it. But how do I prove it? How do I even start?
I scream at the top of my lungs, feeling the frustration tear through me. It's only when my scalp starts burning that I realize I've been pulling at my hair.
Beep. I reluctantly pick up my phone to check the message.
UNKNOWN: You left the kitchen faucet running.
My heart skips a beat. I didn't leave the faucet running. Did I? And even if I did, how the fuck does whoever this is know?
After two minutes of questioning and contemplating, I finally decide to check it out. Shockingly, I did leave the faucet running. I stare at the message, stunned.
Yo, this is crazy.
I keep staring at the screen like it's about to give me an explanation. "I'm dreaming, right?" I mutter to myself. Okay, Rae, think. What do you do in a situation like this?
"Go to sleep?" What the hell did I just say? There's only one reasonable thing to do right now.
Janelle's voice cuts through my panic as she answers the phone. "You know, I was starting to think you forgot about me."
I can't go to Byron's. Even though he was with me a few hours ago, there's a chance he's not even in New York anymore. The only option left is Janelle. Byron's cousin and my friend.
"You still in Manhattan?" It's been a while since we last spoke, but that's not why I fucking called. I need—have— to get outta here.
"Yeah. Why—"
"Great. I'm on my way."