“Our current word count is 2,004 – leaving me 2,997 words short to be on-par. My secretary is still not feeling very well, however, so I suppose I will just appreciate what she’s been able to take down so far, rough as it is. Fingers crossed that tomorrow will go much better.”

“I still need to come up with names for most of the secondary characters. The Hattori/Shinichi male detective/rival character is now called Kent H., son of the police commissioner of Boston… ah, but I must confess that I’m uncertain about certain details about America, as well…”

“…this is a lot more difficult than I thought it was going to be. It’s so rough. I want to back and edit it already. So much information just slathered carelessly across the page in a gigantic info dump. I’m so embarrassed. Nevertheless, I’ll post it under the cut… ”

….

Chapter 1

I’d always been preoccupied with death. Even before my mother was taken from this world, though after it was near-constant. I grew up in a family of officers. My dad was chief of police in the city of Lyndoch, Massachusetts, so I heard plenty about death from a very early age. But hearing about it and experiencing it are two entirely different things. Clinging to Mom in that basement, dirty concrete seeping cold into a skin right through our clothes, I’d known that it had always been a possibility. We were hostages. Dad was having to make the call: let the members of their drug cartel go, where they’d be able to slip off into obscurity with all of the information that they had, or losing his wife and daughter.

Dad’s a good man, don’t get me wrong. I could believe that he loved us more than anything else in the whole entire world, but his sense of justice was just that much stronger. His unwillingness to negotiate with those who would pull this kind of power play had him stand firm and strong. I heard our captors talking about how the police were close to pinpointing our location and I know I felt my heart swell with pride. He was going to get us out of this mess and do it without making any concessions or compromises. He believed in the law, he believed in procedure, and he believed in standing up for what was right, no matter what.

So I almost didn’t understand when they shot her. I was nine at the time, but had seen plenty of movies to know what the bad guys were supposed to banter, play it out, tease what they could get. But they didn’t. Mom had become a liability. Twice in the head, once in the chest. Her blood, splattered on my face and shoulder, was warm. In my horror, I realized that the sensation was almost pleasant from how cold and stiff I’d become, kneeling in that position for the better part of three days. Then she slumped over on to me and I had to scramble to get out of her way. 

I found myself staring at a gun at the end of my nose and froze in place. Sat back when they ordered me to. I even managed to hold back the shriek that was building in the back of my throat. My mother was dead. They’d killed her, and I was next.

While my captors spoke over the phone, presumably with my father, they told him that they’d just lost one of their bargaining chips which meant that he was running out of time. Their logic, as far as I could understand, was that they had to kill one of us to show that they were serious. If they killed me, it was still technically possible for my parents to reproduce and replace me. If they killed my mother, however, I would be all that he would have to remember her and his former life by. A child in danger made anyone desperate.

I trembled as I listened to them discuss their decision with the phone as if it had been arbitrary, passing vague and threatening comments to the person on the other end.

“We can’t guarantee the safety of the little one… not with these anxious trigger fingers.”

“We’d really like our associates to be set free. I’m not sure that you understand just how much.”

The two of them – the brothers in charge of the operation – patted each other on the back in congratulations for their words and cruelty. Delivering the news that Marion Wickham, age 35, loving wife and devoted mother, PTA participant, and once championship horse rider, was dead. Shot because my father refused to give them what they want. And they were about to follow up with Jane Wickham, age 9, daughter of the chief of police and aspiring journalist.

As they held the gun to my head, I remembered thinking that it was tragic. Tragic that a man of such valor would lose what he reported was the most important thing in his life. I also recall thinking that, perhaps, it would serve him right for being so cowardly. Or was it? To be honest, I’m still not sure. I’m seventeen now. It’s been eight years since my mother was killed. Since the force – with help from the neighboring division in Boston – burst through the doors and disarmed the gunman and crew.

Blood painted that dirty floor, and there’s nothing that I can do to get it out of my head.

After that, my dad and I didn’t really stay close. We still live together, sure. Some nights we even eat together, which is kind of incredible. Mostly, I go to school, head to work, go home, say hello to my nanny, do my homework, and go to bed. The tragedy that tore out the heart and soul of our family made my dad kind of a big deal for a while. His sacrifice was all over the papers. So was the rescue of myself. But he was never actually on the scene. His force did the work.

But, I guess that’s why I work for the force and not for him.

Yeah, I wanted to be a journalist. Some part of me still does, I suppose. But after that night, clutching the arm of the police chief of that district in Boston, I knew that I wanted to follow in his footsteps. He got things done while my dad played puppet master. I knew that the work was dangerous, but it really didn’t matter to me whether I lived or died. I should have died that night; part of me really did. That night that my mother died.

Commissioner H. was a family friend. He and my dad had long since worked together on whatever was needed, and neither hesitated to call the other for assistance. He, his wife, and his son – Kent – were over often. Less often without mom to initiate dinners and tea parties, but regularly enough that Kent and I became very good friends. I mention this because I know that he has something for me, but I can’t return it. Not only was my first ever crush his father (ridiculous, I know, but what young girl’s heart isn’t?), but I looked at Kent as more of a brother. And, really, I’m screwed up enough without needing to add “dating my pseudo brother” to the list.

That said, we did spend a lot of time together. He was always quick to give me a text or phone call when there was an interesting case being uncovered that he thought I might be into. He was also quick with offering rides two and from Boston at a moment’s notice. It’s not that he was bad-looking, hardly. He was very cute. And that, in and of itself, was trouble.

You see, I’m… well, as I said, my life is a little messed up.

After the funeral, dad went through all of mom’s stuff and packed them up, stuffed them in storage. Didn’t get rid of them, didn’t sell them, or even donate them. Just packed and put out of sight, out of mind. Oh, sure, we still have family photos hanging around, but none of it is prominent and we’re not supposed to talk about it. Not that he ever said that out loud, but that’s the feeling that I get. Just don’t do it.

I took my camera – a nice digital SLR – to the cemetery every day for weeks, and photographed mom’s grave throughout the changing seasons. Gradually, it moved to once a week. Then every other week. Then once a month. That’s about where I’m sitting, even now. I’ve got quite the time lapse film going, though I wonder if it’s a little bit morbid. Still, can’t be as bad as the kid that’s always walking around at night in this town, recording data on all of the ghosts that he supposedly sees.

Oh, I suppose that I should mention… Lyndoch is a ghost town. And by that I don’t mean deserted; I mean that it’s supposed to be haunted as all get out. It’s got history of tragic loves and witches and all sorts of murder. All that it does for us regulars is make downtown Halloween all year round, which I fine enough, I guess. I don’t buy into the supernatural much, even though there’s plenty of evidence in this very town to suggest that I ought to do otherwise. If it’s real, it’s real. If not, who cares? Unless it affects me personally, I don’t care.

Anyway, the town is full of weirdos, but there’s plenty of good, normal crime for me and the boys at the station to investigate. Or, well, I say that now, but most of the time I do wait for Kent to call, and then it’s off to Boston for a real good time.

Shit, it really sounds like I’m dating him, doesn’t it? I’m sure he’d love that, but I’m really not interested in any sort of relationship right now. Really not. I have a difficult time keeping my head straight when it comes to guys. They’re bad for me. Very bad.  I just can’t control myself.

My therapist says that it’s because of the trauma that I suffered when I was younger, and that’s likely true. Probably some kind of rebellious act out against my father and the situation-  the change that I refused to adapt to – and some sort of struggle for control. You see, there are these events that I’m required to go to because of my father’s position. Fancy parties that I’m always getting invited to where formal wear is required, alcohol is served to minors on the list, and we eat like kings for no reason at all.

Though, that’s not really true. Each of these events are set up by the foundation that my mother was in charge of. They seek out young and promising charity groups and give them a leg up by throwing lavish parties and inviting all of the most ritzy investors. In return, they cut a check for themselves to cover costs and save away for the next chosen charity. When my mother was alive, she worked hard to save the panda, the rain forest, and children in Africa.

The organization is still going strong, but is headed by my mom’s old business partner. I’m invited, primarily, as a formality. A reminder that Marion Wickham have once been alive. I play a charming co-host and, once in a while, attend board meetings to help pick venues, but I really, really don’t care. The benefit of it is that I get to meet a lot of interesting people, which is helpful for my investigations. My network is vast and far-reaching. There is a lot of power in my detective repertoire, I have to admit. It’s a great setup, again, aside from being boring and, oh, except for the boys.

I have a bit of a reputation with the socialites that around my age. The fine young gentlemen, all prowlers, know that they can get me into a side room or a hotel without very much persuasion at all. I don’t know many of them by name- that damn alcohol – but when I look into their eyes, back pressed against the mattress, I know that they must be hurting just as much as I am. Perhaps even more. We drink. We get intimate. We may even discuss a little bit of business. And then, when it’s all over, they give me a ride home and my father is none the wiser. He knows how exhausting these events can be, and has no wish to be reminded of mom’s work.

All of that is assuming that he’s even home. He’s taken to working an obscene amount of hours and sleeping over at the office.