

SHATTERED

by

Sandra Madera

Edited by Susan Blevins

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY

SandraMadera.com

Shattered

Copyright © 2011 by Sandra Madera

Ebook Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be altered, re-sold, or given away to other people. This story is FREE and does not require payment. If you're reading this book and did not download it from SandraMadera.com or other legitimate online bookstore, please download a legitimate copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

* * * * *

The impact was enough to throw my body up against the steering wheel, knocking the breath out of my lungs with a single blunt force. The sound of my ribs cracking echoed through my ears like the sound of branches breaking in a silent forest. Opening my mouth to scream, both in pain and panic, my voice was silenced by my own fear, blocking my airway like an obstruction.

Without warning, there was a turning and a sound of metal being crushed like a tin can under a great weight. Within an instant, my world spun around as if I was in a blender, cracking all the glass windows. Then the splintered windshield shattered. Small pieces of glass rained on me like drops of water suspended in air. Each shard was as sharp as a dagger, stabbing me all over my body.

My head and shoulder hit the roof of the car as it slammed into the asphalt. Whimpering, I fought to regain control of my body, but when the car turned a final time, my forehead crashed into the steering wheel. The force was so great my head ricocheted off, causing the back of my head to hit the car seat. With my body beaten and broken, I could not move to shelter myself from the blows.

When the car came to a complete stop, it was on its side. The hideous shrieking of metal rubbing on asphalt evaporated into the air, and I was left in utter silence. Struggling to breathe, I managed to cry out for help before I lost consciousness and drifted off into nothingness... .

"Miranda, open the door!"

Stirring from my sleep, I sat up in bed, immediately feeling a tickle down my cheek. Bringing my hand to my face, I ran my fingers over it, finding moisture. I had been crying in my sleep again. There was no doubt I had another nightmare. I remembered every detail. It was the same every night since I heard the news a week ago... .

Standing and walking briskly towards my bedroom door, I unlatched it and turned the knob, leaving it open for my father to enter as I ran back under the covers.

He entered cautiously as if not knowing what to expect. When his tense shoulders relaxed into a slump, he came towards me, giving me a warm and comforting hug. "I heard you crying again," he said softly. "It sounded like you were almost screaming this time."

Michael Moralez was a handsome man. Having eyes as blue as topaz and hair as black as coal made him popular with the ladies. He had broad shoulders and a muscular build which gave him the appearance of being a man's man. Standing at about six foot three inches, he was quite tall and usually towered over people, giving them a sense of awe.

My father was well-known throughout our small town as a high school football hero. Going onto college, he had won both state and national championships with his team. Everyone expected him to go pro, but a knee injury caused him to be benched the last season of college. Graduating with honors, he returned home and started up several businesses which made him both rich and respected.

"I was asleep," I said, feeling the need to explain.

Pulling away slightly and taking a seat on the bed beside me, he patted my head. "It is alright. It is good to let your feelings out," he said, his voice gentle but strained.

I shook my head in disagreement. "I hate crying."

"Maybe that is why you cry in your sleep. It has to come out some way. God knows that I haven't seen you cry since your mom died, and you were only seven at the time."

Momentarily remembering my mother's death from cancer, I nodded sadly, trying hard to plug the dam that had been unconsciously released. I hated losing control over my emotions. It was the one thing in life I could control, and I would be damned if I lost my grip in front of others, giving them a reason to feel sorry for me. I didn't want their pity. "I promised myself I would never cry again after that," I confirmed, glancing at the doorway as if expecting my stepmother to burst through the door. "Did I wake Sharee?"

Sharee Benning was her father's wife. They had married a year before after dating for a little over six months. Sharee was a pretty blond with an upbeat attitude and a smile to match. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine; however, being fifteen years his junior, she was content with having no other ambition than being her father's trophy wife.

He shook his head. "No, you know she can sleep through anything," he responded with a sigh, appearing depressed as he ran his fingers through his tussled hair. "Maybe you should talk to someone. I can ask Dr. Jakes... ."

I scoffed at my father's suggestion. "Dr. Jakes is a pediatrician."

"Yeah, but I am sure he could recommend someone," he said, his blue eyes deep with concern. "You are all I have left, Miranda."

"Daddy, I will be fine," I told him, trying my best to convince him. "I just need to get past tomorrow."

Tomorrow was the funeral.

It was supposed to be the day that would grant me the resolution I craved. They say when a loved one dies that the healing stage of grief begins after the person is laid to rest. However, that always seemed like nonsense to me. That person that meant so much to you is gone as if they disappeared from your life. You will never be able to pick up a phone and hear their voice. Or hug them and tell them how much they meant to you. They were gone as if they never existed, and life would just continue on. Sure, people know about the tragedy, but they avoid talking about it as if not speaking their name would make the burden somehow bearable.

That is not the case, especially not for a twin. I will look in the mirror and see my sister's face for the rest of my life. Others will see her in me as well and avoid me in an attempt to cover up their own feelings of remorse.

Nastasia was the one people wanted to be around. She was the popular one. She was the outgoing sister. I was just another nerd that liked photography and crosswords. Initially, people would feel sorry for me, but then my presence would be met with resentment, especially after they found out it was my car she was driving. The accident may have well been my fault. I dream of the accident because of my own inward feelings of guilt. I should have done more. I should have had it inspected. I shouldn't have let her borrow it. It was my fault.

Averting his eyes, my father nodded as if hearing my secret thoughts which surprised me. Starting to breathe heavily, he placed his hand over his mouth in an apparent attempt to hold in his pain. "I just wished I would have told her how much I loved her," he whimpered.

Wrapping him in an embrace, I realized it was the first time since my mother died that my father showed this kind of vulnerability. "You did."

"But I should have said it more," he said, allowing his tears to fall freely. "I love you both so much."

"I know," I whispered in his ear. "We both knew."

* * *

So many people attended the funeral it might have well been declared a local holiday. I had no idea if Nastasia actually knew the hundred or so people that came to show their last respects. Or if they had come to watch our family mourn as not much went on in the small town normally, and people naturally seemed drawn to the macabre.

I could feel their eyes on me as they looked upon my face with long lingering stares. They focused on me as if my tears would be the show they were craving. As if my pain would cause them to feel better about their own lives.

When Nastasia was alive, no one had ever noticed me, but now I couldn't get away from the attention. Even though we were identical, sharing my father's blue eyes and raven-colored hair, no one would mistake me for my sister. We were too different. She was vivacious and exuberant while I was introverted and soft spoken. Now, it seemed, people gazed upon me with a mixture of pity and fear as if they were looking at a ghost.

I averted my eyes, staring only at the oak coffin as it was being lowered into the ground. I stubbornly refused to allow a single tear to fall, trying to appear as a pillar of strength rather than a ball of yarn that had come undone.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. I turned my head slightly to see my father. He held a white rose in his hand that he had picked off of one of the flower arrangements. Taking it from him, I stepped forward and dropped the flower into the pit, watching as it floated through the air and landed on the coffin below with a gentle thud that was barely audible. My father and stepmother followed suit. It wasn't long before everyone passed by the grave, throwing flowers before exiting the cemetery.

"It is time to go now," my father whispered in my ear.

"I want to watch them fill the grave," I said, watching the men standing off to the side by an excavator truck.

He shook his head. "You know they won't do it until we leave."

I allowed him to lead me to the car, feeling a huge weight on my shoulders. The funeral was supposed to be the first step to healing, but I was only left with a feeling of dread. When my mother died, I was seven. I didn't understand the concept of death. Now that I did, there was nothing but a huge void within my heart. There was a space where my sister should be.

"I am sure there will be people who will show up at the house to show their respects," Sharee said, trying to make conversation as she entered the escalade. "I made sure to buy cheese and meat platters for the guests."

The idea of socializing when someone you loved just died was sickening to me. I didn't want to be in the house with strangers gawking at me and asking me questions. I just wanted to be left alone.

As I opened the backseat door, I asked, "Can you drop me off at school?"

"What for?" my father asked, surprised. "I talked to your principal. He said you can have a week off. Winter break is next week so you don't even have to think about going back to class for two weeks."

"I know," I told him, climbing into the car. "I just want to clean out Nastasia's locker."

"You don't have to do that today," he argued as my stepmother watched from inside the car. "Besides, it is almost time for dismissal."

"I don't expect you to understand," I told him bluntly. "But I want to do this."

With a look of frustration, he got in the car, slamming his door shut as he looked at me through the rearview mirror. "Fine."

Closing my door, I watched as Sharee placed a hand on his arm in a comforting gesture. "It will be good for her like... another step towards closure," she whispered to him gently.

With a sigh, he nodded and started the engine.

School had been dismissed early to allow students to attend the funeral. As if for confirmation, my eyes drifted to the parking lot which was completely empty, except for a few cars from staff working into the evening. Other than a few teachers grading papers and janitors cleaning the halls, I would be completely alone. Normally, the idea would have been terrifying, having watched enough scary movies to know it was not a good idea to hang out in an empty school, but today it was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to pack my sister's belongings without the burden of my classmates watching and questioning me. Or ridiculing me, because I wasn't mourning the way they expected me to.

Standing outside the brick building, I watched as my father drove off before I let my eyes drift up to the structure. Dwindling daylight caught the windows, making them gleam like light reflecting off of black marbles. It was a daunting structure when its halls weren't busy with the buzzing of teenagers trying to get to class on time.

Ascending the steps to the front doors, I found it locked. I realized that I hadn't called in advance to ask that they keep the door open. However, I knew that the side door, which was nearest to the parking lot, would be left unlocked for those inside working late. So, I descended the stairs and walked around to the side entrance.

Opening the door with ease, I let myself in. Since the door was level to the sidewalk, it was between floors, and I found myself looking at a stairwell. Ascending the stairs to the first floor, I walked down the hall, making a left at the end. My sister's locker was easy to find since candles, teddy bears, and letters had been placed around it like a shrine.

I sighed, placing my hand on my head and rubbing my temples.

I was so lost in thought that I didn't hear the janitor at the end of the hall call out to me until he was standing in front of me. "You are not supposed to be here, Miss."

Nearly jumping out of my skin, I gawked at him. "I am just here to pack my sister's things."

The man had a blue uniform on and an identification badge that read "Carlos." He had skin the color of caramel and spoke with a deep voice that exaggerated his Spanish accent. Although he looked young, he was most likely in his thirties, having a few laugh lines around his eyes which revealed his maturity. He had wavy black hair and eyes the color of chocolate.

He nodded in understanding, looking at me with the sorrowful eyes I tried to avoid. "I know who you are," he said softly. "I am sorry for your loss, but... I am not allowed to let people in when class is not in session. It is trespassing."

"Carlos," a familiar voice called from an adjacent classroom. "It's okay."

I looked to see, my literary teacher and director of the school paper, Mrs. Fayson. Known for her fiery red locks, Michelle Fayson was a beautiful woman, standing at about five foot ten. She had the most translucent, porcelain skin I had ever seen and was always dressed in sleek pencil skirts which showed off her modern style. Being closer to the age of her students made her more than a teacher for some. She was a confidant.

Leaning on the doorframe, her green eyes bore into me as she smiled sadly in my direction. "Why don't you get her a box that she can carry this stuff in?" Mrs. Fayson told Carlos.

He nodded and walked towards the janitor's closet at the end of the hall.

Turning her attention to me, Mrs. Fayson said, "I am sorry for your loss. Your sister was a wonderful girl."

I nodded, trying not to show signs of being tense and standing as still as possible. "Thank you."

Sensing my obvious discomfort, she changed the subject. "You know, you left your camera in the newspaper office. I kept it safe for you," she said, motioning towards her office. "I will just get it."

"Okay," I said with a nod as she walked away.

Carlos returned with two large filing boxes. "This is all we had," he said before walking off and leaving her alone.

Using one of the boxes to collect the dozens of teddy bears and letters adhered to the locker, I tried to keep my mind focused on the task, making sure to keep my gaze from catching any of the words written about my sister. When I was done, I covered the box, suddenly feeling as if I was closing the lid of a coffin. Transfixed on the painted wooden texture of the cardboard lid, a chill swept through me.

"Miranda," Mrs. Fayson called, bringing me out of my thoughts abruptly and handing me my camera. "Your shots of the game were terrific. They made the front page."

"Great," I responded, lacking my ordinary enthusiasm.

"You are going to make a great photographer one day," she complimented with a smile before glancing down at the box at my feet. "Do you have anyone to help you take this stuff home?"

"It is not a problem," I assured her. "I live close by, and I can just call my dad when I am done."

"Okay," she said. "I have to get out of here. Take care of yourself, Miranda. See you back soon."

I nodded, attempting a smile.

Without further delay, Mrs. Fayson turned off the lights in her classroom and collected her things, waving as she left for the day.

I waved back, watching her go with a sense of relief, feeling the tension leave my shoulders. Although Mrs. Fayson was my favorite teacher, I wasn't ready to be around people yet. I needed to deal with my emotions on my own and at my own pace.

Eager to get out of the school, I reached for the combination lock and turned the dial, knowing my sister's combination. Once the lock clicked open, I threw open the door, averting my eyes from the pictures that she tacked on inside. Without actually looking at anything, I threw everything into the box, except for the textbooks which belonged to the school. When there was nothing left, I threw the lid over the open mouth of the box as if scared of what I might see.

Feeling my heart pounding in my chest, I placed my hand over it, trying to will it to beat normally. Shaking, I realized I had been holding my breath and released it. Angry at almost having lost control, I slammed the locker shut. Kneeling, I rested my head and arms on the boxes to calm my nerves.

"Hey, Randy, what are you doing here?" a velvety voice asked, sounding both surprised and poised.

I recognized the owner of that voice although we were not exactly well acquainted. In an abrupt fashion, I stood up and turned on my heels, nearly falling into Caleb Mitchell.

Caleb was the most charming and extremely athletic quarterback of the school's football team. Standing at six foot three, it was hard not to notice him. His caramel skin coupled with his slightly tapered, raven-colored hair and deep-set sapphire eyes made him irresistible to the female student population. He had a lean, muscular frame that made the girls swoon although he never took advantage of his popularity with the ladies. He was rather shy off the football field, keeping to himself as he went from class to class.

Although we were not close, we shared a few classes as kids, and I did have a rather large crush on him since elementary school which was something I would never admit to. My sister shared my crush, but took it a step further, making her move and asking him out in the middle of freshmen year. They had dated two years before the accident that claimed her life.

While she never tried to bring him to the house and establish a relationship with the family, she talked about him constantly.

I remember her saying, "Caleb doesn't want to go to Britney's party with me. He acts like he doesn't even care, but this is the social event of the year!"

Caleb Mitchell never talked to anyone about his feelings about my sister. I would watch as he would quietly pick her up from class and stroll down the hall like it was an obligation rather than a pleasure.

Nastasia would say, "I don't know what is wrong with him... it is like I have to force him to be seen with me. He doesn't even want to hold my hand when we walk around the hall. He feels like we are putting on a show."

"Are you?" I recalled asking once, standing in her room while she was getting ready for another party.

"Maybe," she said, smiling as she gazed at herself in the mirror. "If you snagged the cutest and richest guy at school, wouldn't you?"

Caleb Mitchell was not interested in cliques and popularity contests. He seemed different from other guys that went to my school. He appeared serious which probably stemmed from his parent's separation last year. Caleb's father, Bryce, was a high powered attorney who picked up one day and left his wife for his secretary. Mr. Mitchell sent support payments and birthday cards occasionally, but Caleb didn't have the relationship he once had with his father.

His whole life had changed since then. Caleb's mother, Nicole, was a single woman in need of a regular paycheck. In the blink of an eye, Caleb and his mother were struggling as the support payments only covered the basic bills. His mother was lucky enough to have been great friends with my father who gave her a job in the billing department of his auto body shop. To help his mother, Caleb gave up football and began to work part time at the shop.

Needless to say, Nastasia wasn't happy with the changes. She told my father that Caleb stood to gain a college scholarship playing football, and it was not fair that he had to work. My father agreed and increased Nicole's pay so Caleb could play. Nastasia was happy, but Caleb didn't like feeling like he was a charity case. It put more of a strain on their relationship.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, shocked to see anyone else in the abandoned halls.

As if amused by my reaction, he smiled although it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Practice was cancelled," he said, motioning towards the doors that led to the football field. "But I had to pick up a book for an English literature project that is due at the end of the break."

"Oh, I just didn't expect to see anyone," I said uncomfortably, shifting my weight from foot to foot.

"Yeah, you seemed out of it this morning at the funeral," he said, his voice cracking. "You didn't even notice when I greeted you."

"No, I didn't," I said, struggling to recall.

"I went to shake your father's hand and offer my condolences. I said 'hi' but you didn't hear me," he said, his blue eyes clouded over by apparent sadness. "I am sorry I scared you just now. I don't remember you being so... fidgety."

I managed a humorless smile which didn't quite reach my somber heart. "Yeah, well, a lot has happened."

A look flashed in his eyes that could only be interpreted as sympathy. "Do you need a ride home?" he asked, glancing down at the boxes at my feet.

I shook my head. "No, I can manage."

"It is just like you not to ask for help. Your sister always talked about how stubborn you were."

"Did she?" I asked, believing that was something she would say.

He nodded, appearing to weigh the situation. Then he put his textbook on one of the boxes and lifted it up. "I have to insist," he said, starting to walk down the hall towards the parking lot doors. "It is starting to snow, and I can't leave you to struggle with a nor'easter on the way."

Both surprised but grateful, I picked up the other box and followed him out to the parking lot.

The ride home with Caleb was quiet. Looking out of the window awkwardly, I avoided conversation. I didn't know exactly what to say. I didn't really want someone else telling me how sorry they were for my loss, knowing that those were just words and no one could really understand the gravity of what I felt. However, the loss was Caleb's as well.

Glancing at him, he seemed comfortable with the silence between us, appearing somewhat content as he gazed out of the windshield with his eyes transfixed on the road ahead.

I did appreciate the fact that Caleb didn't feel the need to pretend. He didn't act like I was someone who needed his pity or to be coddled. In our uneasiness, he didn't bring up my sister. He didn't tell me that with time life will be easier to bear, and the pain would decrease until I just felt numb.

"I like driving," he said, breaking the silence. "It helps me clear my mind."

"I am sure you have had a lot on your mind with your parents and my sister's... accident," I said, instantly regretting that I had brought it up.

"Yeah," he confirmed solemnly.

When he pulled up to my house, I unbuckled my seatbelt hastily, eager to spend some time in my own company. When I was by myself, I was the most comfortable since I was out of the eyesight of others, and their expectations weren't suffocating me. I needed that peace which could only be found in solitude.

The daylight had almost all gone, making the sky look like it was colored a light indigo. Flurries fell from the heavens, sailing lazily through the air and forming a white film on the ground. As a cold wind blew, the trees swayed, casting gloomy shadows on the ground below.

The four-square, which I had grown up in, was painted a dark shade of brown which added to its eeriness. The house appeared somber as it sat upon its lot, lacking any sign of life on the outside. If it weren't for a few lights illuminating the windows, the house would have appeared abandoned.

"Thanks for the ride," I said, turning to Caleb for a moment. "I appreciate it."

"Wait!" he said, nearly shouting. "I mean... I wanted to speak to you about something."

Nodding in understanding, I turned towards him, waiting for him to speak.

"I know that we haven't said more than a few words to each other since... well... I can remember," he said, appearing uncomfortable. "But I would like us to be friends."

"Of course," I said with a curt nod, wondering why he chose to be friends now and not when my sister was alive.

With a sigh of relief, he smiled at me, his sapphire eyes meeting mine for a moment. "Let me help you carry that stuff to the door," he said, getting out of the car before I could object.

We collected the boxes and climbed the front porch.

Before I could put the box down on the floorboards, my father opened the front door as if he had been expecting us. "Oh, Dad," I cried out, surprised. Feeling as if I had been caught doing something inappropriate, I thought I should explain Caleb's presence. "I ran into Caleb at the school, and he helped me bring this stuff home."

A smile formed on my father's lips. "Hey, Caleb," he greeted as if seeing an old friend. "How is your mom?"

"She's good," Caleb responded with slow a nod. "Thanks for all your help, Mr. Moralez. My family is grateful."

"No problem. Let me know if there is anything else I can do," my father said, reaching for the box that Caleb held. "Let me take that from you."

My father moved out of the doorway, placing the box along the wall of the front hall. "Would you like to come in?"

Caleb's eyes drifted towards me and back at my father. "No, I have to get home. Thanks again, Mr. Moralez. See you at school, Miranda," he said as he waved awkwardly and walked back to his car.

"Bye, Caleb."

"He is a good kid," my father told me as he moved out of the doorway so I could enter the house. "It is a shame Tasia never wanted him to come over. It was like she wanted to keep him all to herself."

"I thought he never wanted to come over."

"No," my father said, watching Caleb drive off. "Tasia refused to let me invite him to dinner. She said he had enough on his plate without the pressures of getting to know us. I think she was afraid I would grill him, but I have known his family for years. He's a good kid."

I nodded in agreement, putting down the box in the front hall and removing my coat. "What did he mean when he thanked you for your help?"

My father hesitated. "Ever since his father left, his mother has had a hard time," he told me, placing the box he held on top of the other one. "She has been drinking more lately and neglecting her responsibilities. This thing has ruined his whole family. Anyway, Caleb has stepped up, doing her job in his spare time until she gets back on her feet."

"Wow, I didn't even know," I told him.

"No one did. Not even your sister," he said. "I paid Nicole as if she was doing the job and slipped in a few dollars under the table for his own use."

Sensing warmth seep into my heart, I nodded in understanding. I stepped forward and hugged my father, feeling proud of him. "That is the nicest thing ever."

He sighed sadly. "I know what it is like for someone you love to be sick," he responded, holding me tightly. "Well, we both do, don't we? It is not easy, especially when you are living paycheck to paycheck."

Suddenly, the telephone rang. Its ring pierced through the air like an urgent cry, breaking up the moment of bonding.

Pulling away, my father walked into the living room and picked up the receiver. "Hello," he said, pausing to listen to the voice on the other line. "Hello, Det. Conner."

My ears perked up at the mention of Det. Conner. Although I had never met her, my father told me that Det. Lindsay Conner was the officer assigned to my sister's accident. She had questioned him about my sister's late night drive, wanting to know why she had been out so late. She also wanted to know about who my sister was with that night. Questions that seemed odd to ask about a car accident which involved icy roads and a tired driver. Apparently, detectives are assigned to all accident cases just in case of foul play, and she was just confirming the plausibility of an accident.

"What do you mean?" my father asked shrilly, suddenly appearing distraught. "How could that be?"

I stepped forward, concerned. "Dad, what is it?"

Signaling for me to be quiet, he collapsed on the couch as if drained of all his energy. "Of course," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "She will be here all day. Thank you. Goodbye."

Replacing the receiver, he placed his head in his hands.

"What happened?" I asked, suddenly very worried as I watched him.

"That was Det. Conner," he said, looking up at me momentarily.

"Yeah?" I urged him to speak, feeling my heart pounding within my chest cavity in anticipation of what I might hear.

"She wants to ask you a few questions tomorrow." Running his hands through his dark hair, he shook his head in apparent disbelief. "She said your sister was... murdered."

* * *

I didn't get much sleep the night before. Every time I closed my eyes, I dreamed of the crash. I felt the car that I was driving slip on the black ice which covered the strip of road before me. Moving the wheel to the right, I struggled to regain control, finding myself veering off to the left. The hard turn caused the car to balance on the two right wheels. Then the car flipped, throwing me about like a leaf at the mercy of the wind.

Jolted awake, I stared at the ceiling, wondering when the nightmare would end, but then I remembered the one thing that would never change... .my sister was dead.

The idea that my sister might have been murdered was driving me insane. In my restlessness, these questions plagued me until I felt unable to stop my mind from racing with the possibilities. Who would want to hurt Nastasia? Why was she a target? Why would the detective come to the conclusion that there was foul play?

Trying to still my thoughts, I sat up in bed, focusing my attention on the window across the room, and waited for daylight.

When my boring beige bedroom began to illuminate with the bluish gray glow of dawn, I dressed and waited downstairs. After making a fresh pot of coffee, I walked into the living room. The room was painted beige just like every other room in the house. Even though the house was under-decorated, it held a warm and comfortable feeling. The rooms were covered in richly stained oak floorboards which added to the warmth. The doorways and windows were framed with the same wood, ornamented with a carved medallion at each corner.

The living room was a large room that had windows which captured the front and side gardens. Opposite the threshold, there was a large wood-burning fireplace with a carved wooden mantle. Across from the front window and adjacent to the fireplace, there were two tan-colored couches, which were placed parallel to each other, with a coffee table in the middle. There were no accessories accenting the room. The walls and table tops were plain with little more than a layer of dust sitting atop them.

Sharee tried to put her stamp on the house. She purchased clashing throw pillows in a zebra and leopard design which my father thought were quite interesting. He would have never picked them out himself, and although they were better placed in a college dorm room, he conceded to her design, knowing it would make her happy.

Coming downstairs and seeing the pillows used to bring a smile to my face. The room was so plain that the wacky design stood out and looked out of place. Nastasia hated them, finding them over the top. I had to talk her out of ripping them up with a pair of scissors. I thought it was the design that irritated her senses, but now I believed it was the fact that my stepmother had picked it out. Sharee was stepping into her place as the lady of the house which was not kosher with my sister who resented my father's marriage with a quiet disdain.

I took my post by the front window, watching as the light dusting of the night before gave way to a full fledged snow storm. Large particles of snow fell from the sky as if slanted by the wind, gathering in large mounds that measured at least a foot high. The wind blew harshly, smoothing out the snow and howling against the windowpanes.

"Good morning, honey," my father greeted, giving me a kiss atop my head. He was put together, wearing khaki pants and a blue button-down shirt that complimented his eyes. As he poured himself a cup of coffee, he sighed, appearing stressed. It was obvious his night was as restless as mine.

Taking a sip of my coffee, I saw the detective's car pull up. "She's here," I announced, running to the front door.

Before my father could react, I threw the door open just as Det. Conner climbed the front steps. The detective was a short woman, standing at just over five feet and appearing in her forties. She had mousy brown hair, pulled back into a bun, and dark eyes to match. She wore a heavy trench coat and plain clothes.

She eyed me, appearing intrigued by my appearance. "Miranda?"

I nodded, ushering her inside. "Please, come in."

Guiding her into the living room, she took a seat on the beige sofa, taking out a notepad and flipping through its pages. "So, you are a twin."

"I was a twin," I told her somberly, taking a seat on the opposite sofa and placing my mug on the coffee table.

My father stood by the doorway between the front hall and the living room, appearing nervous. He shifted his weight from foot to foot as if trying to decide if he should enter or exit the room. His mind was probably weighing if he wanted to hear what the detective had to say. Finally ending his interior battle, he walked into the room, taking a seat next to me.

Det. Conner ignored his presence, focusing solely on me. "Where were you the night of the crash?" she asked me directly.

Shrugging my shoulders, I answered, "I was home."

Her gaze never left me as if she expected me to say more.

I continued, "I had loaded some pictures from my camera to my laptop after school while at the computer lab. They were for the school paper. Nastasia was in a rush to get home that day, and she came to get me. I threw my laptop in my bag, but I forgot my camera. I had to pick it up yesterday."

"Do you know why she was in a rush to get home? Did she appear agitated?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "No, not really. We did argue a bit. Well... after we got home and I realized I forgot my camera, I was furious at her, but she apologized. Later, I called school, getting the answering machine, and left a message for Mrs. Fayson so that she knew I left my camera. So everything worked out with that, I guess."

"Why didn't you go back to the school to pick up your camera?"

"It was after hours. I was sure the doors would be locked so I decided to work with what I had. I reviewed the pictures I had loaded and emailed some to my teacher."

Scribbling notes, she stopped and looked up at me momentarily. "Your teacher?"

"Yes, Mrs. Fayson. She runs the school paper. I submitted some photos to her that night," I told her. "It is not uncommon for me to do that."

"So, she can validate the receipt of those photos?"

Confused, I nodded, narrowing my eyes at her and glancing at my father.

"Where is this going, Det. Conner?" my father asked, looking from me to the detective. "You said you had new information concerning my daughter's case. Why are you questioning us?"

Ignoring my father's question, she turned to him and asked, "And where were you that night, Mr. Moralez?"

Thrown off by the question, his body jerked in his seat. "I was at the office all day," he answered, running his hand through his raven-colored hair. "My wife and I had an anniversary. My wife picked me up in the evening, and we went out to dinner."

She turned her attention to me once more, probing me with her eyes. "Why did Nastasia go out that night?" she asked, writing some notes on her pad.

"We ordered pizza," I said, leaning forward in my seat. "Nastasia volunteered to pick it up."

She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. "Nastasia's best friend, Britney Clarke, gave a statement. She said that Nastasia was having problems with, her boyfriend, Caleb Mitchell. She considered leaving him."

I shook my head. "Tasia didn't really discuss her relationship with Caleb. She talked more about the parties she planned on going to than Caleb."

"Do you know if she planned on leaving him?"

I fidgeted in my seat. "I don't know. She didn't talk about anyone else."

"Did she ever argue with him?"

"No," I answered. "I never hung out with them all that much, but I never noticed any arguments."

"Caleb is a good boy," my father mentioned, seeing the direction of the conversation. "I am friends with his mother, and he is selfless when it comes to her."

Det. Conner nodded, flipping through some pages on her pad. "Was staying home unusual for Nastasia?"

"Maybe," I answered, contemplating the possibility.

"Why didn't you go with her to pick up the pizza?" she asked, raising a discriminating eyebrow at me.

"I told you. I was loading pictures onto my computer."

"Can you tell us what is going on?" my father said, appearing frustrated by her questioning.

"New evidence has been brought to light," she said, looking at my father. "It appears the brakes were cut on the car Nastasia was driving."

Shifting in his seat uncomfortably, his complexion changed, becoming bright red with anger in a matter of seconds. "Could that have happened during the crash?" my father asked shrilly, his body tense.

She shook her head slightly. "The brakes were cut with precision... as if sliced by a blade. If it were from the accident itself, the tubes would be shredded."

At a loss for words, I tried to absorb what was being said. My sister was murdered. Someone cut the brakes so that she would crash. Why? Why would anyone want to harm her? What would they benefit from her death?

"Now we were told she was driving your car, Miranda."

Her words floated in the air between us until I could come out of my thoughts long enough to comprehend them. "Yes, my car," I said with a nod. "Her car was in the shop. She was always out and about that it just made sense for her to borrow it. I stayed at home most days anyway."

"We looked into the car in the shop. She complained about it stalling," Det. Conner volunteered. "It seems sugar was poured into the gas tank."

My father put his head in his hands, appearing ready to break down. With his complexion changing to dark crimson, his body shook, and I heard him sob as he covered his face from view.

Cupping my arm around his shoulders, I held him close, trying to be as supportive as possible. "We didn't know that."

"You wouldn't have. I told the mechanic to report to me when we confiscated the car," she told me matter-of-factly.

I looked at her incredulously. "So, you have my sister's car?"

"It is evidence," she said, standing up. "Cars that involve murders are usually put up for auction by the department after a trial. But seeing as how your sister was not killed in the car, you should receive it back after a conviction."

I couldn't help but feel violated. My sister's car was taken without our permission. Her best friend was questioned without our knowing. Who was this woman working for? Was she really out to bring resolution to our family or incriminate us? "Do you have any suspects?"

"A few," she said, making her way towards the door.

Leaving my father to collect himself, I followed her. "Well, who?"

"Caleb Mitchell is one," she said, not sounding convinced on the direction of her investigation. "He dated your sister, and he worked at the auto body shop your sister's car was brought into."

I scoffed, wondering if this woman was an idiot or goading me. "My father owns that shop. Where else would she have taken it?"

"Well, our investigation leads us to believe there might have been blackmail," she said quietly, standing at the main entrance and glancing back at my father. "There were large amounts of cash being transferred from your father's bank account to Mr. Mitchell's. We are looking into it."

I shook my head. "Caleb's mother is sick. My father was helping the family with their financial troubles," I told her, blowing holes in her theory. "That is why Caleb was helping out in the shop. He was covering his mother's shift."

Handing me her card, she gave me a look of suspicion. "I might want to question your father about it at another time. When he is more up to answering questions, tell him to give me a call."

Accepting the card, I couldn't believe that she would cast aside my word. She acted as if I was lying to her. She looked at me with suspicion as if I couldn't be trusted. My sister was killed, and she looked at me as if I had something to do with it. "I am telling you the truth," I said, fuming.

Stepping out of the door, Det. Conner looked back at me and said, "I noticed how you didn't cry when I told you that your sister had been murdered. That is really interesting."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "It takes a real vulture to attack the wounded, Det. Conner. I don't know how you can sleep at night," I said angrily.

Turning around and stepping off the porch, she said, "With all due respect, Ms. Moralez, you don't appear so wounded."

Feeling my anger about to boil over, I slammed the door shut and tore up her card, hoping to never see her again.

* * *

Days had passed since my encounter with Det. Conner, and I had no intention of reaching out to her under any circumstances. The woman rubbed me the wrong way. My sister's case was just a quota to her. She needed it resolved, and it didn't matter if the people she suspected were innocent as long as the case was closed.

My father was more emotional than usual. After I went to bed, I could hear him go into Nastasia's bedroom and cry. Of course, Sharee would comfort him, but depression seemed to always hit him hard and fast as it did when my mother died. It took him years to get over her death, and I suspected this blow was worse.

I tended to internalize my grief, choosing to appear like a pillar of strength in the bad times. However, my stoic resolve was sometimes misread as the inability to feel at all. Although I wished I was numb, I could feel and did feel every bit of my sister's loss. It felt like a piece of me was missing that would never be recovered.

"Merry Christmas, darling," my father said, coming downstairs and kissing me on the head.

Lost in thought, I hadn't bothered to dress or comb my hair. I chose to get up before the crack of dawn and sit on the couch, clutching my mug of coffee. "Merry Christmas, Daddy," I said with a weak smile.

It was my favorite holiday, and for once, I didn't feel like celebrating. I hadn't been out of the house in days. I hadn't slept very well. My mind was racing with all kinds of thoughts, and I was powerless to stop it.

"You look like you have had better days," he commented as Sharee entered the room.

"I was thinking about making French toast and turkey bacon for breakfast. What do you think?" she asked, a smile playing on her lips.

"Sure," my father said, trying to be upbeat.

"My favorite," I said, attempting to sound enthusiastic but coming up flat.

Brushing a few loose strands of her blond hair behind her ear, Sharee nodded at me with a large smile on her face. She was probably trying to cheer me up by cooking my favorite breakfast. Although cooking seemed to be a small gesture, it wasn't lost on me. I appreciated her thoughtfulness, but it would take more than food to cheer me up. Still, I wanted her to believe that it did so that she could feel that she was being helpful.

As Sharee rushed to the kitchen, my father focused on me once more. "So, when was the last time you had a full night's sleep?"

I looked at him as he sat on the arm of the opposite sofa, looking worse for wear himself. "Before the accid—" I stopped myself. "I will sleep tonight. Dr. Jakes prescribed me some light sleeping aids. It seems he received a phone call."

He nodded. "I was worried."

Placing my mug on the coffee table, I stretched my limbs. "I will take a pill tonight," I assured him. "I know I need to sleep. I just can't do it on my own anymore. My mind is... racing. I can't stop worrying. I can't relax."

My father walked across the room, taking a seat next to me. "I know how you feel, sweetheart, but we will get through this together," he said, placing his hand on my shoulder.

I nodded, looking over at the lit Christmas tree in the corner of the room and watching the lights change color. "I know we will, Daddy."

"I have a gift for you," he said, changing the subject as he walked over to the tree and picked up a small gift. "Open it now."

Accepting the small parcel, I ripped open the Santa Claus wrapping paper, revealing the plain white box. Removing the lid, I saw a key with an emblem on it. "What is this?"

My dad smiled brightly. "It is the key to your new car," he said. "I had Caleb deliver it last night. It is sitting in the driveway."

Jumping up, I ran to the window and saw a brand new Land Rover parked in the driveway. It's ruby red exterior was gleaming in the sunlight. It was a vast improvement over my blue jeep. "I can't believe it!"

With his smile dimming a bit, my father seemed as if he was trying to hide the sadness behind his eyes. "I know you don't feel like driving around town right now, but you were going to need a new car to get around anyway," he told me, walking to the window and standing by me. "It is an all-terrain vehicle so I know it can handle all types of road conditions. Plus, I had stainless steel brake lines put in rather than rubber."

Nodding, I knew exactly what he was implying. Steel lines could not be cut as easily as rubber. He was not willing to take the risk of losing me as well to my sister's killer. He wanted to take every precaution necessary to ensure my safely. "Good," I said, giving him a big hug. "Thank you, Daddy."

"Breakfast is ready!" Sharee called into the front hall.

My father and I made our way into the kitchen, taking our seat at the round breakfast table.

The kitchen was fit for a chef. My father had it redone a few years before. He had spacious wooden cabinets installed with a complimentary cinnamon granite countertop. The appliances were top grade with a six burner stove and a Sub-Zero refrigerator. At the center of the prep area, there was a large island which had a large farm-style sink.

Sharee carried a large serving dish of French toast and a platter of turkey bacon, setting them on the table. "Bon Appetit," she said, walking over to the refrigerator and grabbing the orange juice.

My father dove in, serving himself a big portion and topping it with loads of syrup.

"Not so much syrup! That is way too much sugar," Sharee groaned, placing the juice at the center of the table and running to shut off the coffee maker.

"It is not like I eat like this every morning," my father said, grinning at her. "Can you pass me the newspaper?"

Holding a hot pot of coffee, Sharee grabbed the newspaper, handing it to my father.

Picking up a piece of bacon from the dish, I chewed on it as I served myself two pieces of French toast. "I don't know why you read newspapers. Everyone knows they are packed with lies," I told him.

"Not lies, sweetie. The stories are just sensationalized to grab the peoples' attention," he corrected, unfolding his paper.

"We talked about it in my English class with Mrs. Fayson. There was a study done that said that over fifty percent of newspaper articles have inaccuracies," I informed him. "Not only are the stories inaccurate, but sixty-six percent of Americans feel they are bias, leaning to one side over the other."

"Someone has to be the victim, and someone has to be the bad guy," Sharee commented, taking a sip of her coffee. "It is the classic story of good versus evil that sells papers."

I nodded, looking at my stepmother with a raised eyebrow. Even though she made an interesting point, her lighthearted tone made her sound ditsy. Her Barbie doll appearance didn't add to her perceived intelligence, but every once in a while she did say something profound that would blow me away.

"But who holds them accountable when they are wrong?" I asked, drinking my orange juice. "Most people can't afford lawyers to go after false stories, and they are covered under the first amendment. So, the lie remains."

"Most articles tabloids print are just plain weird," she commented, motioning to the magazine she just picked up. "That is why I don't believe everything I read."

"Yeah, but that is a tabloid," I scoffed. "I expect them to embellish the truth. I expect a newspaper to be accurate."

My father shrugged his shoulders. "That is just life."

Shaking my head at my father's indifference, I ended the conversation, cutting into my French toast and stuffing my mouth with a big bite.

"I guess the police have new leads in the Samantha Cole murder," my father announced as he read the story.

I stopped chewing instantly.

Samantha Cole was a junior at my high school who was found in a drainage ditch the next town over. She was two years older than me. I remembered hearing about her death when I was a freshman.

When I asked about her, I received mixed responses at first. Many people didn't seem to like Samantha. She was from the rich part of town. She was popular, pretty, and self-important. She mistreated those she thought were beneath her, raising her nose up at them.

My father continued, "The evidence is supposedly largely circumstantial, but they brought in her ex boyfriend for questioning. Marcus Weiss. Do you know him, Miranda?"

"I know of him, but he is not a friend of mine," I answered, averting my eyes. "He was on the football team when I was a freshman. He graduated like two years ago."

"They must have new evidence to bring him in for questioning," he commented.

"I doubt it," I told him. "If they had new evidence, they would have arrested him already. Besides, Marcus doesn't seem the type to harm another person."

"The Cole family lived in that beautiful English tutor next door to the Mitchell's," Sharee commented, taking a sip of her coffee. "My mother helped them sell last year."

Recalling Sharee's mom was a realtor in the area, I nodded. "It was a beautiful house," I said, envisioning the large stucco house with dark wooden beams.

After a long pause, my father shifted his attention back to the paper. "I have to believe what I am reading. The police called the boy in for questioning. They wouldn't do that unless they were sure," he said, his face growing in concern.

"Dad," I moaned in frustration.

"What if he... killed... ."

With her pleasant smile gone, Sharee shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "Michael, don't... ."

I gasped, knowing exactly what he was about to say. He was going to imply that Marcus may have killed Nastasia. "Now you are labeling him some kind of serial killer when he didn't even know Tasia."

The notion both infuriated and sickened me. How could he come to that conclusion? It wasn't even a logical leap. Besides the circumstantial hearsay that was going around wasn't enough to convince me of his guilt in the Samantha Cole case. So, why would I suspect he had anything to do with my sister's death?

Pushing my plate away, I stood up. "Thanks for breakfast, Sharee, but I lost my appetite."

* * *

When the car came to a complete stop, the metal around me was twisted and groaned as if ready to collapse further. My body rested on what was the interior roof of the car. My limbs were spread out at odd angles, appearing broken. I was bleeding from the particles of glass that were embedded in my skin. Feeling as if I couldn't breathe, I took forceful breaths, using my accessory muscles to get air into my lungs.

Suddenly, the headlights from an approaching car lit up the wreckage around me.

Gasping for air, I closed my eyes and prayed that the driver would see my car, which had rested in the tree line, by the side of the road.

When the light didn't fade, I knew that the car had been spotted. Hearing a car door slam shut, the distinct sound of heavy boots walking on the pavement filled the air around me.

I couldn't move my head, but I was able to shift my eyes towards the rear window. I could see the outline of a man. Although his headlights were blinding, I watched as he walked at an unhurried pace towards my car.

" _Help me," I called weakly, loud enough only for my ears to hear._

Hearing the sole of his boots crunching on the glass which littered the road, I watched him. Breathing heavily, I focused on his boots which came to a stop outside the blown out passenger window.

With my breathing labored, my throat became increasingly dry, and I coughed involuntarily, tasting blood in my mouth. Panic swept through me as breathing became harder and my vision became blurred.

Wake up, I beckoned myself inwardly.

My heart pounded in my chest, causing a drumming sound to invade my ears.

Wake up!

Gasping for breath, I felt like I was drowning. Unable to force even the tiniest amount of air into my lungs, my chest was burning. "Help," I gagged, trying to reach out for the boots, but I couldn't will my limbs to move.

At that moment, I realized he had no intention of saving me. He wanted to watch me die.

Wake up, Miranda!

Unable to control my body, it convulsed, being starved of oxygen. My eyes rolled back, and I lost consciousness.

I was jolted awake by the sound of a shrill scream which pierced the silence of my bedroom. My eyes bolted open in my shock, and I struggled with whether what I heard was a part of my dream or reality. Sitting up in my bed, I moaned and placed my head in my hands, feeling lightheaded.

Clumsily turning on the bedside table, I noticed the bottle of sleeping pills placed beside a half empty glass of water. Testing my memory, I recalled taking a single pill and resting my head on a pillow. I must have still been under the effects of the pill so I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and carefully rose to my feet.

Suddenly, another scream radiated through the house.

Running towards my bedroom door, I grabbed the doorknob, bursting out of the room. I made my way down the staircase with reckless abandon. "Sharee!" I called out, holding my head with one hand and clutching the banister with the other.

Reaching the foyer, I looked around wildly, glancing into the living room. I noticed the lights were on, and the television was playing a movie.

With my heart pounding against my ribcage, I stumbled further into the front hall. "Sharee!" I called, running towards the dark kitchen.

Flipping on the light, I heard a moan.

My eyes shifted from the backdoor, which was wide open, blowing in the breeze, to Sharee. She was lying on the floor, crying with her head in her blood-stained hands. Rushing to her side, I grabbed a clean rag from a drawer and placed it over an open wound on her head. "What happened?" I questioned, my voice coming out at a higher pitch than anticipated.

Struggling to catch her breath through her tears, she said, "There was a man. He had a mask."

Suddenly alarmed, I looked around the room cautiously, trying to figure out where someone would hide. "Where did he go?"

"He ran out the backdoor."

Without further hesitation, I climbed to my feet. Taking determined steps, I made my way to the back door, feeling the effects of the medication melt away as adrenaline pumped through my veins. When I reached it, I looked out, shaking from both fear and the chill of the winter air. The yard was surrounded by large evergreens which were beautifully overgrown; however, under the soft glow of the moonlight, their form made eerie shadows on the ground. The tree cover and shadows were so dense that anyone could blend into them, masking themselves from sight.

I hugged my torso, guarding it from the cold breeze that swept through the night air. Feeling increasingly anxious, I felt eyes on me, watching me from somewhere in the darkness. I felt as helpless as an ant under a microscope. Someone killed my sister, and I couldn't help but feel that the rest of my family would be next on the killer's radar. We were all in terrible danger, and yet, I was clueless as to why.

With a shiver running up my spine, I slammed the door shut, locking it firmly, and called the police.

* * *

I yawned, suddenly feeling the effects of the sleeping pill once more. "Are we done yet?" I asked the young rookie as he sat across from me.

Officer Jonstan was a nice looking man, appearing in his late twenties. He had skin that was the color of caramel and eyes that were as dark as coals. He had a strong, muscular build although he was quite tall and lean.

He opened his notepad to a blank page. "Where is your father right now?" he inquired with a slight Caribbean accent, ignoring my own question.

Although they had taken Sharee's statement and wheeled her out of the house on a stretcher that was hospital bound, I was sequestered in the living room, subjected to the same idiotic questions. "Can I go with my stepmother to the hospital?" I asked, glancing out the window across the room and seeing Sharee being wheeled into an ambulance.

He shook his head, pursing his lips in annoyance. "Not until we figure out what is going on here," he answered me, his brown eyes boring into me.

"I already told you," I told him, agitated by the constant repetition of my story.

"Well, maybe, you should explain it to me this time," Det. Conner said, entering the room and relieving Officer Jonstan of his duties as my interrogator. As soon as the young officer stood and walked out of the room, she asked, "Where is your father, Miranda?"

Narrowing my eyes at her, I shrugged my shoulders.

Taking a seat across the couch, she appeared stone-faced. "You are being extremely uncooperative for someone who did nothing wrong."

"What can I say? I suddenly don't like cops," I told her bluntly. "You have my stepmother's statement, and Officer Jonstan has several of mine."

"Let's cut the crap, shall we," she told me, loud enough for only me to hear. "We know you are under the influence of some kind of drugs and that you don't exactly get along with your stepmother."

I scoffed. "You will be hard-pressed to prove your words, Detective, since what you're implying has no basis on facts," I told her. "I know that you can use lies as a tactic of interrogation but acting like a prescribed medication is some illicit drug is a stretch."

Det. Conner wrote some notes in her pad, probably labeling me as uncooperative.

"I know my rights, Det. Conner, and I know that as a minor you cannot speak to me without my father's permission which you do not have," I told her, lowering my tone so that she understood I was deadly serious. "So, back away from me right now."

With her brows drawn together, she stood up, beginning to walk away. Then she stopped and turned on her heel. "There is the matter of you removing items from your sister's locker," she said. "I want the two boxes of stuff you removed. I don't think I need to get a warrant, do I?"

I shook my head. "I will get them."

Alarms rang in my head. I forgot to look through Nastasia's things, and I couldn't let them go without looking at them first. I didn't exactly trust Det. Conner. Her concern seemed to be in wrapping up the case whether they caught the guilty party or not.

Ascending the stairs, I went to my sister's room, switching on the light. Knowing I only had two minutes before I would spark the detective's curiosity, I ran across the room. The boxes were across the room under the window. Opening the lid on one, I saw candles and bears. My camera was also in the box.

I pulled out my camera and sat it on the dresser.

I opened the second box which was about a quarter of the way filled. It contained her sister's notebooks, loose-leaf papers, and pictures. I quickly spilled the contents on the floor, kicking it underneath the bed. Then I filled the box with half of the items from the first box. Sitting on the nightstand, there were some novels and old sketchbooks which my sister doodled in. I threw those in with a few pictures of friends that were laying about her room.

When I was done filling the box up with junk, I went downstairs, giving the boxes to Det. Conner. She seemed pleased with herself as she took the boxes from me.

Suddenly, my father came bursting through the door, looking around wildly before setting his gaze upon me. "Thank God. Are you okay?"

I ran straight into his arms, instantly feeling safe. "I am okay," I told him, squeezing him tightly. "Where were you?"

Holding me close, I could hear his heart beating like a drum in his chest. "I had to go to the auto body shop. The alarms went off," he told me. "The police are investigating a break in."

"Can you verify that?" Det. Conner asked, standing in the front hall.

My father's eyes narrowed. "Yeah," my father answered her, appearing frustrated. "Ask the twenty or so cops that are still there."

"Det. Conner," an officer called, entering the front hall. "We didn't find anything. Our guys couldn't find fingerprints to lift. The suspect must have been wearing gloves. We couldn't find footprints outside either."

"Pack it up," Det. Conner ordered. "There is nothing left to be done here."

"But what about my wife's attacker? How are we supposed to feel safe in this house?" my father asked, his eyes growing wide with anxiety.

As everyone filed out the door, she said, "I suggest you get an alarm system."

* * *

The ringing of a phone jarred me out of my sleep. Looking around in confusion, I realized I had fallen asleep while sitting in the vacant waiting room at the local hospital. As I opened my eyes fully, the glare of the florescent lights blinded me temporarily and forced me to narrow my lids. As I sat up in my seat, I rubbed away the dull ache in my neck with a sigh.

Realizing it was my phone that was ringing, I fumbled for my cell phone in my coat pocket and accepted the call. "Hello?"

"Hi, Miranda. It is me, Lisbeth," the voice greeted, sounding higher pitched than usual.

"Hi, Libby," I replied, my voice still thick from sleep.

I knew Lisbeth Lorenzo for a number of years. She was an upbeat, statuesque brunette who had hazel eyes that were the color of honey. Her skin was the color of caramel that was common for those of Mediterranean roots like her. She had a row of straight, white teeth which were exposed every time she laughed. Her positive outlook was infectious, and she often lifted peoples' moods with a simple smile.

Libby, as her friend's called her, was an honor student. As the head of the cheerleading squad, she played a role in getting Nastasia in. She was one of my sister's closest friends, staying over at my house on occasion as a child. Although we weren't as close as she was with Nastasia, we were always pleasant to each other and greeted one another when our paths crossed.

"I hate to bother you at this time, but I have to talk to you."

Adjusting my body on the lightly cushioned seat, I struggled to get comfortable. "What time is it?" I asked, glancing around the room and looking for a wall clock; however, the lime green walls of the waiting room were bare.

"It is after 11pm," she answered.

Shaking my head in an attempt to wake up completely, I stretched my limbs. "I am sorry. I just woke up so I am a little out of it," I told her. "My stepmother was attacked, and I am in the hospital, waiting for her to finish getting stitches."

"I know. My dad is a detective so he heard about what happened," she commented, her voice tense. "Although he is not working on Nastasia's case, he told me they are looking into Caleb Mitchell. Is that true?"

"I am not sure," I told her honestly. "I don't think Caleb had anything to do with Nastasia's death."

"My father hasn't been too happy with Det. Conner's work," she said, sounding hesitant. "I don't want to get involved, but... did you know that Caleb used to date Samantha Cole?"

My mouth dropped open. "No," I answered, surprised. "No, I didn't."

"Samantha and Caleb lived next door to each other," she explained. "She was two years older, but they dated when he was in middle school."

"What are you saying, Lisbeth?"

"Miranda, there were things happening to Nastasia that I am not sure you are aware of."

The words took a minute to register, but when they took root, I was suddenly wide awake. "What?" I questioned, my eyes growing wide with curiosity.

"Well, Britney knows about it more than me, but she was receiving these... notes."

"Notes?" I questioned.

"Yes," she replied, her voice strained. "She would find them in her locker. Sometimes with a gift."

"What kind of gifts? Like jewelry?" I asked, arching a brow.

"These were not those kinds of gifts," she whispered. "They were morbid."

Leaning forward in my chair, I inquired, "What do you mean?"

"Well, it started off sweet like flowers, but then she received a small box of chocolates with razor blades. She never told anyone," she said, her voice shaking. "I found out because I was with her when she opened her locker and found an elegantly wrapped gift. It smelled like death. She told me about the stuff going on, and I told her to toss the gift. She tried to change her locker, but there were none available."

Dumbfounded, I realized that Nastasia was a stranger to me. We never discussed school or boyfriends or even these weird happenings. She just acted like everything was fine, and I never asked. "Why didn't she say anything?" I asked, my voice coming out of my voice box in a shrill tone.

"I guess she didn't want to worry anyone," Libby said, sounding nervous. "I don't know if she took it seriously herself."

Rubbing my temple, I tried to think of a plausible scenario. "Maybe, someone was playing a joke," I told her.

"Do sinister gifts sound like a 'joke' to you?" she questioned.

"No," I answered, agreeing with her. "But what are you getting at, Libby? Who do you think it was? Did Tasia have a clue?"

After a brief pause, Lisbeth said, "Everyone knows Caleb was never as into Nastasia as she was into him. That relationship was just about over. If it wasn't for the gratitude he felt towards your father, he probably would have dumped her a long time ago."

Bending my mind around what she was implying, I considered the idea of Caleb leaving these packages for my sister. Caleb was not the type to fool around and play games. He took on more responsibility since his father left, and he wouldn't have thought such things were funny in his depressive state. It didn't fit his personality to do such things, and I couldn't wrap my mind around Caleb having any malicious intent towards Nastasia or anyone else.

"These things were found in my sister's locker, right?" I asked, not waiting for a response. "So, who had her combination?"

"Well, Caleb did," Libby said, keeping her voice just above a whisper. "Look, Tasia got rid of the gifts, but she kept the notes in her locker... in a tin box. Just do me a favor and don't tell him. He might be innocent, but until your sister's killer is found, he is still a suspect."

Leaning forward and holding my head in my hands, I said, "Thanks, Libby. I will look into it."

"Remember not to mention my name," she said before hanging up.

"I won't. This will stay between you and me right now," I assured her and hung up my phone.

"Who was that?"

I turned abruptly in my seat, glancing at the doorway into the waiting room. I caught a glimpse of my father standing in the threshold. "Oh, no one," I said, standing up and turning around to face him.

Immediately, my eyes drifted to a figure that was standing just beyond the doorway.

When my father saw that my attention was drawn to the figure standing just behind him, he moved aside, allowing the person to enter the waiting room.

Caleb Mitchell walked in with a slight grin playing on his lips. He looked handsome wearing a brown leather jacket, dark washed jeans, and a matching blue sweater. With his hands in his pockets, he looked at me from beneath his thick black lashes. "Hello, Randy," Caleb greeted as he stood beside my father.

Surprised, my heart began to flutter slightly in my chest, causing me to skip a breath. I glanced from my father to Caleb and back again. "Hi, Caleb," I said a decibel below the level of normal hearing.

Feeling myself grow warm, I brushed my cheeks with my fingertips, realizing I was blushing. Embarrassed, I bowed my head slightly, hiding behind my long hair as I struggled to regain composure from my initial shock.

Although Lisbeth was convinced Caleb had something to do with Nastasia's death, I wasn't so sure. He didn't seem like a killer. I never saw Caleb lose his temper about anything. Plus, if he really wasn't that interested in his relationship with Tasia, then why would he leave her such cruel gifts? This was the sign of a stalker. Not a boyfriend who is looking for his opportunity to make a clean break. It just didn't make sense.

Appearing amused by my reaction, my father looked at me with a slight smile. "I called Caleb to drive you home," he announced, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Realizing that Sharee was not being released, my mind raced through the possibility that she was hurt more than I originally thought. "Is Sharee okay?" I asked fearfully, stepping towards my dad.

"I am going to stay with Sharee until she fully wakes up," my father explained. "She was so nervous about receiving stitches that the doctor gave her a depressant, but she had an allergic reaction while he was giving her the stitches. So, he had to give her the antidote. She is fine, but he wants to monitor her respirations and histamine levels before releasing her."

"That is crazy," I said in disbelief, shaking my head. "This whole night has been a disaster."

Motioning to Caleb, my father said, "So, I called Caleb. We should be home in a few hours, but in the meantime Caleb is going to stay with you. I feel more confident sending you home with a football player to defend you."

I nodded slightly, agreeing with him. Yet, alarms were going off in my head. Trying to brush away any feelings of trepidation, I glanced at Caleb for assurance. Taking in his strong but laidback demeanor, I reasoned that if anything happened to me, my father would know that Caleb was with me. "I feel bad leaving you and Sharee."

My father hugged me and whispered in my ear, "She is fine. She is resting which is what you should be doing."

I nodded, giving his torso a squeeze before releasing him. "Call me later and let me know how she is doing."

"Of course," he told me before pulling away and shaking Caleb's hand. "Take care of her."

Caleb nodded soberly. "I will, Sir."

Waving goodbye, I followed Caleb to his car which was parked just outside in the parking lot. Since it was after midnight, the visitor's parking lot was nearly empty. It was eerie hearing the heel of my shoes clicking on the pavement and having the sound echo through the cold night air. Scanning the area with my eyes, I tried to survey the darkness for anyone who may be following us, but there was no one to be seen. If anyone was there, they could easily have been hiding in the brush which surrounded the parking lot. The notion gave me a chill.

"Are you cold?" Caleb asked, breaking the silence between us.

"No," I answered, shaking my head as I averted my gaze to the ground. "It is just really creepy out here at night."

Caleb smiled warmly. "Don't worry. I'll protect you," he said as he draped his arm around my shoulders and gave me a slight squeeze.

Moving out of his grasp uncomfortably, I increased my pace to the black Dodge Viper in the center of the parking lot. If he noticed my discomfort, he didn't say anything as he followed me to the car.

"I love your car," I told him, trying to make conversation as I reached the passenger's side door.

"Yeah," he said, sounding suddenly somber. "It is one of the few toys my father left behind. I guess you would say it is my inheritance."

"I am sorry," I told him. "I didn't know I was bringing up bad memories for you."

He went around to my side and opened the door for me. "It is just a car," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "It doesn't mean anything to me. My father has ten other cars like this one so I guess it didn't mean much to him either."

I slipped in, and he closed the door behind me. Watching him run around to the driver's side of the car, I couldn't help but feel like I had just put my foot in my mouth. I reminded him of his father without meaning to and probably sounded more like my sister than he cared for. Nastasia was the one that cared for material things. I was the practical twin. Since when did I look at the type of car a guy drives? Never.

After Caleb entered the driver's side, he glanced at me before starting the car. "You look troubled," he said, a melancholy smile playing on his lips. "Are you thinking about... Nastasia?"

I shook my head, feeling a heaviness enter my chest. "This is one of the few times I wasn't thinking of her," I told him as he turned out of the parking lot and onto the main road. "I feel guilty, but with everything happening, I haven't thought of her. I am just trying to block her out of my head right now so I can deal with everything else."

"Don't worry about the break in," he said, frowning. "The police will catch whoever did it. That is their job."

"Like they caught Samantha Cole's killer?" I asked sarcastically, averting my eyes before turning to him once more. "I never knew you dated her."

Watching his knuckles turn white as his grip increased on the wheel, he bit down on his bottom lip. "Who told you that?"

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter," I said, suddenly feeling sorry for the intrusion into his private life. "It is none of my business."

As the occasional streetlight lit up the interior of the car, I could tell he was taken aback by my comment. His breathing increased and seemed more jagged than it did before. His eyes seemed increasingly moist in the light. "Samantha and I were childhood friends. We grew up right next door to each other. Her bedroom window faced mine," he told me, the color draining from his face as he focused on the road. "I suppose you could say we dated when I was in the sixth grade and she was in the eighth. But it was just puppy love, and it was over in a week or two. The year my dad left was the year they found her dead. I was devastated. I hadn't talked to her in a while. I wasn't there for her. When my family troubles started, we just drifted apart. Suddenly, I didn't care about friendships, dating, and popularity."

"I shouldn't have said anything," I said, realizing Lisbeth's wild assumptions were taking root in my mind. "I am sorry."

Caleb relaxed, pulling into my driveway. "Stop apologizing," he said with a smile as he glanced at me.

"I should apologize," I told him, opening up the car door and swinging my legs out. "I don't know what I was getting at."

Jumping out of the car and running around to the other side of the car. Offering his hand, he helped me out and closed the door behind me. "It is okay," he said quietly, his sapphire eyes meeting mine as he held onto my hand.

Pulling my hand from his grasp, I asked, "Did you ever love my sister?"

He glanced away, appearing ashamed as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shifted his weight. "No," he answered bluntly, although his face twisted as if in pain at admitting the truth out loud. "It didn't matter who I dated, they could never compare to the one I really wanted. Not Samantha. Not Nastasia."

Brushing a few black strands away from my face, I stepped past him, walking towards the front porch. I couldn't understand what I was feeling. My emotions overcame me like a dark cloud. He was in love with someone else this whole time, and he strung my sister along like a puppet. "I see," I responded, looking over my shoulder as he followed me.

"Please, Miranda... I wanted to leave her, but she always sensed it was coming and would avoid the conversation," he said pleadingly as he followed me up the stairs to the porch.

In the dark, I noticed a white box sitting on the floorboards just outside of the front door. Stopping abruptly in my tracks, I studied the box. The long rectangular box was wrapped in a red ribbon which culminated with a bow on the top.

Standing behind me, Caleb hadn't realized the present and continued to speak, rushing his words. "I have always loved you, Miranda. I was stupid. You just never seemed to give me the time of day. I thought I could date your sister, and it would be like dating you. But it wasn't," he said, his voice straining. "It was you, Miranda. It was always you."

I ignored his words, feeling unable to deal with them at this time. "Caleb, look at this," I told him, transfixed by the box.

"Did you hear what I just told you?" he asked, sounding annoyed.

Kneeling down, I opened the lid of the box, pulling back the tissue paper and screamed. Scrambling to climb to my feet, my eyes never left the box.

"What?" Caleb asked, surprised as he stepped forward.

"It is a dried flower. A white rose just like... the ones in my sister's funeral arrangement," I said, pointing at the contents. "It is covered in worms!"

With a look of disgust written across his handsome face, Caleb moved passed me and covered the box with the lid.

As he reached to pick it up, I saw him look towards the trash bins at the end of the driveway and stopped him. "Don't pick it up," I told him as I spotted a small envelope that must have fallen from the lid. Picking it up, I carefully opened the unglued flap and pulled out the card, reading the words written across the cardstock.

With his eyes wide, Caleb turned to me. His eyes met mine before glancing down at the cream-colored card in my hand. "What does it say?" he asked, appearing puzzled.

I looked up at him in disbelief. "It says, 'It was always you.'"

* * *

"I found the box on my doorstep with this note attached," I said, handing the note to Officer Jonstan as he stood in the parlor while his partner looked at the macabre package on the porch.

"It was always you," he read aloud. "Does this mean anything to you?"

I shook my head in response.

"Well, it is not a crime to leave a package like this, but with all the circumstances involved, I think we better look into it. We will dust it for fingerprints."

I stole a glance in Caleb's direction. He was sitting in the living room with his head propped up on his hands as he leaned forward in his seat. He appeared bothered by the note. If he had not said those same exact words before I opened the envelope, I wouldn't have the feeling of dread and anxiety which crept into my stomach.

He said he was in love with me. How could that be? We spent our whole lives in the same circles but never spoke more than a few words. I never caught him staring at me or blush as I went by. Caleb always acted as if nothing mattered to him at all. Perhaps he was reluctant to make his true feelings known out of fear of rejection. After all, he was dating my sister. Or it could all be a lie... a way to manipulate me into believing that he was in love with me. But why?

"Ms. Moralez?"

"Yes?" I said, turning my attention back to Officer Jonstan.

My attention shifted from his face to the object he was holding in his hands. He held a plastic bag with a photograph inside.

"We found this underneath the dried flower and bagged it for evidence," he stated. "This photo wasn't left out in the elements. We can try to get some prints. Do you recognize it?"

Taking the evidence bag into my hands, I pushed down on the plastic so that I could get a clearer view of the photograph inside. "Yes," I answered, gazing at the picture.

The picture was taken two years before at a football game I was covering for the school paper. My assignment was to snap photos of the players on the field, but I snapped a few photos of my sister and Lisbeth. This photo caught them with huge smiles on their faces with their arms wrapped around each other.

"I took the photo," I said. "It was taken at a football game in our freshman year. It was my sister's first night on the cheerleading squad."

Officer Jonstan nodded. "This edge seems to have been torn," he said, pointing at the right side.

"I can't imagine why," I responded. "The last time I saw that picture it was hanging in my sister's locker."

"We will bag everything up and look into it," he said as he walked out the front door and assisted his partner.

I watched as they bagged up the box carefully, keeping it level to avoid spilling its contents. Then after assuring me they will do everything they could, they got in their patrol car and drove away into the dark night.

I closed the front door and turned the latch to make sure it was locked. Then I peeked in at Caleb in the living room. He had his head in his hands, appearing upset. "They're gone," I said, stating the obvious in an attempt to break the ice.

He looked up at me and nodded. "You didn't tell them that you heard me say those words to you right before you opened the note. Why not?"

Standing at the threshold, I hesitated for a second and said, "Because I don't think you had anything to do with this. You were at the hospital with me just before... so it couldn't have been you."

Caleb arched a brow. "I could have done it before I answered your father's call," he said, rising from his seat.

I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling trapped. "But you didn't," I responded, feeling my insides shudder slightly.

Keeping his sapphire eyes trained on me, he shook his head slightly, appearing bothered. "No, I didn't," he said, walking towards me and stopping a foot away. "Did you ever suspect me of hurting your sister?"

"No," I answered, my voice leaving my lips in a pathetic whisper.

He bowed his head, looking at the wooden floor. "I don't believe you," he said, appearing hurt.

Looking away momentarily, I said, "There has just been a lot going on, and things were being said that were enough to make me wonder."

"What things?"

"You dated another murder victim, Caleb," I said, feeling my insides shiver. "My sister was getting harassed by someone leaving notes in her locker. A locker that you could have easily had the combination to."

Caleb stepped forward suddenly, grabbing my shoulders. "I would have never done that," he said, looking at me squarely in the eyes and speaking through gritted teeth. "Samantha was my best friend, and Nastasia was... superficial. Everyone could see she was all about keeping up appearances. She didn't care about having anything meaningful. She just wanted a trophy. I may not have been in love with her, but I would have never hurt her."

Trying to pull away, he held me tighter. "Let go," I ordered him, feeling his warm breath sweep across my face which immediately sent shivers down my spine.

Suddenly appearing lost in thought, he stared blankly at me. "Who told you about Samantha? We never told anyone about our relationship."

Lifting up my hands, I tried to pry his hands off my shoulders. "Let go, Caleb."

"Who?" he questioned, shouting. "Who tried to turn you against me?"

"Lisbeth," I answered, hoping that he would set me free. "She called me tonight and told me not to trust you. She said you had a relationship with Samantha. She said you had the combination to my sister's locker. You could have left all the notes."

His hands dropped instantly. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he averted his gaze, staring down at the floor. "There is nothing left to say then," he said coldly, walking with large strides towards the front door.

"Where are you going?" I asked, suddenly fearful of what he might do.

Caleb glanced back at me, anger written across his face as his brows drew together. He opened the front door and walked out, slamming it shut behind him.

* * *

"Miranda!" my father called. "You have a letter!"

I ran downstairs to meet him in the front hall. I took the letter and sat in the living room, making myself comfortable as he continued to look through the mail. The white envelope had no return address. It wasn't until I ripped it open that I realized it came from Caleb.

My heart jumped. I hadn't spoken to Caleb since he stormed out of the house a few days before, and I regretted letting him leave like that.

Looking down at the writing scrawled on the paper, I began to read. It read:

Dear Miranda,

I am writing you to apologize for the way I spoke to you the other night. I don't always know how to phrase how I feel. I spend so much of my time guarding my words that when what I am really thinking slips out I feel like I don't have control. I am much better at writing out what I meant to say.

I realize that some of the things I confessed may have taken you by surprise. But everything I told you... I felt. I have been in love with you since we were in the same first grade class. You were distinctly different from your sister. You were more quiet and unapproachable, but your words, when you did speak, were sincere. I admired that. I carried that memory through the years.

I made the mistake of believing that your sister would be more like you, but she wasn't. It was hard for me to imagine that two girls that were identical to one another could be so different. Before my parents' divorce, I may have been more open to Nastasia's superficial attitude, but after, I wanted more out of a relationship. I wanted someone who understood me. Someone who cared to hear what I had to say. Not someone who only cared about the next party we should be seen at. I wanted someone like you.

It is hard to describe, but I don't see your sister when I look at you. I see the girl I met in the first grade, the shy girl with the warm blue eyes. Realizing my feelings were a huge conflict, I stood in the relationship, feeling trapped. I knew you wouldn't even consider me since I was already with Nastasia. I would have given anything to be close to you, but I wouldn't have ever harmed your sister.

I know now that there could never be anything between us, and I will never again repeat any of this to you, but I just need you to believe me.

\- Caleb

Letting the words sink into my mind, I felt conflicted. I did have feelings for Caleb, but in some part of my mind, I was betraying my sister. Although there was no real substance to their relationship, he was still involved with her, and that was a huge conflict for me. It hurt me to believe I just couldn't follow my heart, but there was an invisible barrier I just couldn't cross.

Then there was the possibility that Caleb may not be everything he appears. A part of me wanted to believe he had nothing to do with harming my sister, but the truth was he wasn't happy and could have done anything to get her out of the way.

My thoughts drifted to the dream I had of the crash, remembering the set of boots as they stood outside the car.

A chill ran down my spine.

Could it have been what my sister actually went through? Was someone there, standing in the darkness, waiting for her car to crash? Could it have been Caleb or someone else we knew? Could it have been a stranger?

Tracing the writing on the letter with my eyes, my breath caught in my throat. It didn't look like the writing on the note I received, but I couldn't be sure. Remembering what Lisbeth said about Nastasia keeping the notes in a tin, I ran upstairs.

"Where are you running to?" my father asked, shouting after me.

"Nastasia's room," I shouted back as I hurried down the hall.

I entered my sister's bedroom. Sprinting across the room, I reached under the bed and pulled out all of the things I had hidden under there. Finding a small tin box, I opened it.

Upon lifting the lid, I immediately noticed a picture of my sister. Her smile was bright. She stood between her two best friends, Britney and Lisbeth, wearing their cheerleading outfits. Lifting up that picture, I found more photos of Nastasia with various friends at different social events.

At the bottom of the stack, I found a picture of her with Caleb. While she seemed happy, Caleb hadn't even bothered to smile as the photo was snapped. He looked bored as he posed with an arm lazily draped around her shoulder.

Putting the picture back in the box, I found three small cream-colored envelopes in the bottom of the tin. Removing one, I opened the flap, pulling out the piece of cardstock.

My eyes traced the heavy-handed rounded strokes of the writing on the note as I read it. "I know what you saw," I read aloud.

I picked up Caleb's letter and noticed the light linear strokes of his penmanship. "The writing doesn't match," I said to myself, feeling relieved. "It wasn't you."

"What are you doing, Miranda?" my father asked as he walked into the bedroom. "It isn't who?"

I glanced up at my father as he stood before me with his arms crossed. "It isn't Caleb," I told him excitedly before realizing I had been hiding so much. "I suspected Caleb of having something to do with Tasia's accident, but it isn't him."

My father kneeled down on the floor beside me. "Of course it wasn't Caleb. He would never do such a thing," my father said calmly, his voice soothing.

"I couldn't be sure of anything," I told him, shaking my head. "Not after I got that call from Lisbeth."

"Lisbeth? Tasia's friend?"

I nodded, suddenly feeling emotional. "She told me that Caleb knew Samantha Cole. She made it seem that there may be some link between Caleb and the Samantha Cole murder."

He raised an eyebrow, watching me closely. "And that note?" my father questioned, seeing the papers in my hand.

"I received this letter from Caleb today," I told him, holding up the paper in my right hand. "This other one is a note that Tasia received from... someone who was harassing her."

"Harassing her? Why did you not tell me anything about this before?" he asked harshly, his face beginning to turn bright red. "What have you been hiding from me?"

"I didn't know until the other day," I told him, blurting out my words as I handed him the note. "She was supposedly receiving weird gifts and notes at school. She never told anyone about it. I didn't know until Lisbeth called me."

My father looked over the small piece of cardstock. "We need to hand over this note to Det. Conner. This could help her investigation," my father told me. "What does it even mean? What did she see?"

I shook my head. "Lisbeth told me all that she knew. I have to talk to Britney and see what she knows."

"No," my father said sternly. "Let the authorities handle this. You need to rest. You haven't been sleeping well. You are having nightmares every night. You have dark circles under your eyes."

"Daddy, I have to know what happened."

"I can't lose you, too! Leave it to the authorities," he told me, his blue eyes meeting mine in a pleading manner. "Please, promise me."

With my brows drawn together and my lips forming a tight line, I nodded reluctantly. Although I was conflicted by his request, I saw a glimpse of his inner torment which I couldn't possibly ignore. He loved me, and he couldn't live with yet another loss. "I promise."

As I watched my father stand up and exit the room with the letters in hand, my eyes lingered on my camera which I had placed on a dresser a few days before. My mind suddenly drifted to the picture which was left inside the macabre gift on my doorstep. The picture had been cropped manually. Why? Perhaps to center the two individuals in the photograph. Or perhaps... to remove evidence that had been in the background of the picture itself.

Jumping to my feet, I grabbed my camera. As I held it in my hands, I remembered I had stored previous snapshots on my SD card. I walked straight into my bedroom with purposeful steps. Sitting down at my desk, I connected my camera to my laptop, navigating through the files of pictures I had taken over the years.

Since the picture was taken two years before, it took quite some time to find the shot in question. "Got you," I said aloud as I double clicked on the image, making it bigger.

My sister's brilliant smile overtook my screen, and I felt a knot in my chest. It was hard to believe that she was gone, and I had scarcely allowed myself the time to mourn. However, seeing an image of her brought the grief I had been trying to suppress to the forefront.

I felt a tear escape my eye. Quickly wiping it away, I shook my head, trying to focus on the task at hand.

I adjusted the size of the picture, focusing on the dark background. The picture was taken at night just before a football game. Although bright flood lights lit up the night's sky, there were many shadows in the background since the field is surrounded by dark patches of forest.

Noticing the half empty bleachers, I focused on the blurred faces, but I hardly recognized anyone. To my recollection, the seats were mostly vacant as many people had not arrived or were hitting the concession stand before the game.

My eye drifted to the right portion of the photo which had been ripped. Although the pixilation of the photograph prevented me from getting a clear view, I noticed two distant figures standing just outside of the bleachers. One of them was clearly a female with brown hair and light skin that bared a resemblance to... Samantha Cole!

I gasped.

My breathing quickened.

My heart began to pound violently in my chest at the realization that I may have captured Samantha Cole's last moments before her violent murder.

My eyes reluctantly shifted to the other figure who appeared to be slightly taller. In relation to their proximity to one another, this person seemed to be her companion that night. Could this person have been her killer?

This image confirmed in my head that it couldn't have been Caleb. He was playing that night. He couldn't have been standing on the sidelines with Samantha. She was there with someone else that night.

I needed to sharpen the pixilation of the photograph, but I didn't have a program that could do that; however, I knew someone who did.

Entering my web browser, I logged onto my email account. After attaching a photo, I wrote:

Hello, Mrs. Fayson.

I need your help sharpening the image and softening the pixilation of this photo. I believe the person on the right located by the bleachers in the background of this photograph is Samantha Cole. This image may have been captured moments before her death, and her companion could very well be her murderer. This could aide in the police investigation for both Samantha's and my sister's murder. This is a very urgent matter that can use your assistance as soon as possible. You can contact me on my cell phone since I don't want to worry my father should I be mistaken. Thank you!

-Miranda

I clicked send, hoping that she would get back to me as soon as possible. This photo could be the evidence needed to bring to light the motive for my sister's murder and put a face to Samantha Cole's killer.

Disconnecting my camera from the drive, I heard my father running up the stairs, calling out to me. I hurried to shut my laptop so he wouldn't see what I was doing.

He entered the room, appearing winded. "What are you doing?" he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

I shook my head. "Nothing," I answered.

"Did you not hear me calling you?"

"No," I said, sitting up straighter in my seat.

My father entered the room, his heavy footsteps making the floor beneath him creak. "I just got off the phone with Det. Conner. She has just arrested Caleb for suspicion of murder."

"But he is innocent! He didn't do it, and we have proof," I shouted, standing abruptly. "You have it right in your hands."

I motioned to the letters, suddenly feeling dizzy. With my head whirling, I took up my seat again before I fell to the floor.

Rushing towards me, my father put the letters on my desk, appearing concerned. "You need to rest, Randy."

"But he didn't do it, Daddy," I told him on the verge of tears as I rubbed my temples.

Kneeling before me, he took my hand into his. "Det. Conner said that the letters mean nothing. She said that they might not be linked to your sister's killer," he said calmly, his eyes red with apparent exhaustion. "I don't want to believe it either, but she said Caleb was the logical choice. Their relationship was on the verge of ending. He could have been upset about it... . He could have snapped."

I shook my head. "I don't believe it."

Petting my head, he sighed. "We have to trust the police. They know what they are doing," he said, keeping his voice calm and soothing. "Just get some rest, and I will be back to check on you later."

I nodded, standing up and walking towards the bed with my father's aide. My dizziness was adding to my exhaustion, and I yawned. Climbing onto the mattress, I covered myself in the warmth of the comforter and closed my eyes, falling asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

* * *

I awoke with a jolt, finding it was late in the afternoon. I had the same nightmare I have had many times before. There was something unsettling about it all. It was as if the dream wasn't just a figment of my distraught mind but a vision of actual events. The image of the person approaching the car, his or her features being hidden by the blinding headlights, was frightening.

My cell phone rang, ending the silence with its ear-piercing ring. Reaching out towards the nightstand, I picked it up and accepted the call. "Hello?"

"Miranda? It is me, Britney," a female voice said in a low tone.

Britney Burgos was my sister's best friend. Sharing mostly the same classes, they did everything together. It wasn't uncommon to see them out and about, shopping or going to the latest party.

Britney was a captivating brunette whose full mane and warm chocolate eyes seemed to put every boy in school under her spell. Her skin was golden brown, and her build was curvaceous. However, her fun loving personality, although sometimes stuck up, brought her status among their high school class.

"Britney?" I questioned, sitting up in bed. "Where have you been? I have been trying to reach you for days now. I wanted to ask you about the letters."

"The letters?"

I nodded, speaking into the phone. "Yes, the ones my sister received."

She remained quiet for a minute before she spoke. "Caleb has been arrested," she said, her voice sounding strained.

Bringing my free hand to my temple and giving it a slow rub, I answered, "I know."

Britney ignored me, whispering in the phone. "I have to talk to you," she told me. "Can you come over to my house?"

"Can this wait until tomorrow?"

"No," she answered abruptly and then lowered her tone. "I wouldn't ask you if it weren't important."

I glanced out the window, estimating the amount of daylight left in the day. "Of course," I told her. "I don't think my father will have a problem with it as long as I am back before dark. I will be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you," she said before hanging up the phone.

* * *

I ran downstairs and put on my coat while calling out to my father. "Dad, I am going to Britney's for a little while. I'll be right back."

Before hearing his response, I was out the door. Looking up at the sky, I noticed the sun had been hidden by massive storm clouds as rain was on the forecast. I walked down the small walk to the driveway, looking at my new car which had been parked in my drive ever since I received it. I had not bothered to drive it perhaps because of my own fear that what happened to my sister could also happen to me. However illogical the thought, I knew it would linger in my mind until I resolved what happened.

Shaking those thoughts out of the forefront of my mind, I inspected the car as I got in and found that nothing looked out of order. Deeming it safe to drive, I started it up and made my way to Britney's house, which was only a mile away, on the other side of town.

The two-story colonial stood on a hill in one of the richest neighborhoods in town. Britney's mother, a real estate agent, snatched up the house for a steal and fixed it up over a period of ten years, making it the regal residence it was today. Her father, who was disinterested in a home improvement project, let his wife do all the necessary adjustments while he spent his days and nights working in his publishing company.

Looking up at the house, it appeared dark and imposing. I suddenly felt my insides quiver as my breath caught in my throat. My anxiety was in facing a new environment and talking with someone who wasn't in my normal circle of friends. Britney was my sister's friend, but I could count on one hand the actual times we talked. Most of which were just friendly greetings and nothing more. So, what could she possibly have to tell me that was so urgent?

Parking in the driveway, I hesitated, looking up at the silent house. Shaking the negative thoughts of comparisons to horror movies out of my head, I decided that I was being foolish and got out of the car.

Walking the path towards the front door, I stopped, noticing the door was ajar.

_Maybe, she left it open for me_ , I thought. _She knew I was coming._

However, there was a nagging suspicion in the back of my mind, playing on my nerves. Yet, I didn't know enough about Britney to make this feel like an unusual habit. She could have very well left the door open for me. However, it was the middle of winter, and it was too cold to just leave doors open.

"Britney," I called, ascending the stairs and standing on the brick semi-circle that anchored the columns on either side.

I walked forward hesitantly. Reaching the door, my heart began to pound steadily in my chest as I reached out and pushed the door.

Shivering, I watched tensely as it swung open with a creak, hitting the wall behind it with a dull thud.

"Britney?"

No response.

Stepping into the house, my eyes scanned the front hall which was plainly painted white with a few family pictures hung on the wall. On either side of the hall were French doors, leading to the dining and living areas. On the right wall, there was a grand staircase which led upstairs. Toward the back of the hall was a singular doorway that must have lead to the kitchen.

Peeking into the living room, I entered cautiously. "Britney?"

The large room was decorated with lightly-colored furnishings. The walls were painted white. There were matching sheer curtains that hung from the windows, allowing light to enter.

With my eyes scanning the room, I noticed on the opposite wall was a grand fireplace. Opposite the fireplace was a winged-back chair which was flanked by two large sofas in the middle of the room, making for a spacious conversation area. The formation of the furniture formed a perfect U-shape which was aimed at the feature wall. In the space between the sofas was a coffee table.

Walking towards the furniture, I stopped.

My heart began to beat like a wild drum in my chest.

My nostrils flared as my breathing increased.

My eyes, wide with surprise, noticed a shoe near the foot of one of the sofas. Tracing it with my eyes, I saw that it was stained with drops of blood.

Running towards it, my eyes made contact with the body that was lying at the base of the sofa.

"Britney!" I screamed, running to her side.

Trying to shake her awake, I saw a big purple bruise on her forehead as if she had been hit with a blunt object of some sort. In the middle of the bruise, there was a cut which was an inch long which bled. Her blood had fallen onto the carpet. Her eyes were half open, and her stare was vacant.

Leaning forward, I positioned my ear next to her nose and heard that her breathing was shallow.

Jumping up to my feet, I reached for my cell phone and found that I did not have reception. Dashing towards the foyer, I managed to get two bars, and in that instance, my phone rang, surprising me.

"Hello?" I said anxiously as I picked up the phone.

"Miranda? Where are you? I have been trying to reach you!"

"Mrs. Fayson?" I questioned, listening to the female voice on the other end of a bad reception. "I am at Britney's. You must help me! Something terrible has happened!"

"What? I can't hear you," she said. "Did you say you were at Britney's house?"

"Yes!" I tried to speak again, but she cut me off.

"Listen to me, Miranda. Get out... of there," she said urgently, although the connection was bad. "I cleaned up... pixilation on... photograph... sent me. You photographed... Samantha Cole. She was standing with... ."

"With who?" I questioned, my eyes catching on the row of shoes lined up in the front hall.

I gasped.

"With... Carlos... Burgos!" she shouted.

I looked up and saw a family picture on the wall. In the picture, Britney was seated between her parents, smiling brightly. Off to the side, there was a man with a familiar face. "Call the police!" I cried, my eyes drifting back to the construction boots placed in the front hall which brought back memories of my dream. "Britney is hurt—"

Turning on my heel in an attempt to run out the front door, I ran into a figure and dropped my phone. Taking a step back, my eyes stared in horror at the man in the doorway.

I couldn't think.

I couldn't move.

He stepped forward, and as if by instinct alone, I jumped back.

I recognized the man as the maintenance worker at the school. He had been so kind to help me with getting boxes to pack my sister's belongings then. Now his dark eyes were furrowed together, and his jaw was clamped tightly in anger. He wore jeans and a clean, white t-shirt, appearing as if he had just washed. His hand gripped a baseball bat as he came towards me menacingly.

"Get away from me!"

With his heavily booted foot, he stomped on my phone, breaking it into a million pieces. "I can't have you calling for help," he said.

With my insides shaking, I back away further in fear. "Did you do that to Britney?"

He nodded, pointing at the living room where Britney lay with the bat in his hand. "My poor half-sister... she just didn't know how to keep her mouth shut," he said, his face twisting in anger as he spat. "She was always the favorite. They always treated me like the black sheep."

Averting my eyes for a moment, I shook my head abruptly. "She didn't say anything."

"You look scared," he commented with a humorless laugh. "You should be."

I swallowed hard.

"She figured it out. I couldn't have her running and telling the cops. But you... I can have fun with you."

Stepping back, I let out a gasp of disgust.

Taking a moment of silence, he stared at me, and I could feel the anger emanating from him. It came off of him like hot energy which wanted to burn me. "The whole Samantha thing... . Do you know how much trouble you have caused me? Do you?" he asked, shouting as all apparent calm drained from his features.

Shaking my head, I caught a glimpse at the monster within. "What do you want?"

He scoffed. "You know," he responded with an all-knowing nod, giving his bat a little swing. "I have been looking for you for a long time."

"Please, I... don't know what you are talking about," I pleaded as my back hit the wall next to the kitchen door.

"You saw me with her, with Samantha. You took a picture that night," he said, grinding his teeth. "I was stupid. I couldn't tell the difference between you and your sister. I poured sugar in the wrong tank. I sent my little gifts to the wrong girl. She was never supposed to be in the car that night, but now there is no doubt. I can set this right."

My breath caught in my throat. "You killed her because of the picture?"

"I couldn't have you tying me to the murder," he said matter-of-factly. "It should have been you that night."

"No," I gasped.

The realization of what happened hit me fast and hard. My sister was killed because of me. I carried proof of a murder for two years, and he killed her because of it. It was all my fault.

"Samantha got what she deserved. She was always stringing me along while she mooned over your little boyfriend," he told me, spitting his words out. "And, well, Britney was always the favorite. Dear old dad couldn't ever bring himself to acknowledge his illegitimate son... . I had to work as a maintenance man while they lived in this big old mansion. How is that fair, huh?"

"My sister had nothing to do with your family problems," I told him, feeling my anger boil inside of me.

"Your sister? Let's face it. All women are the same," he said. "She was just as phony as Samantha and Britney. She only cared about herself. She deserved what she got."

"Shut your mouth about my sister!"

"The truth hurts doesn't it?"

"The only truth is that you are psychotic!" I screamed, pointing my finger at him. "You killed innocent girls for the pleasure of it. Samantha was out of your league and you couldn't stand it, could you? You killed her because she didn't even know you existed... or even cared!"

Without warning, he held the bat up and swung it at me with all of his might, shouting as he summoned all of his force.

Screaming, I ducked out of the way, hearing it crash into the wall behind me. I forced back into my lungs the air that had been expelled. Catching my breath, I glanced at it, seeing it had made a hole in the wall before it broke into two pieces.

Appearing surprised, Carlos looked at the broken piece in his hand. He flung it across the room as his eyes bore into mine. "You would have already been dead. If your stupid stepmother didn't see me breaking into the house, this problem would have already been dealt with," he said, his voice deep and guttural like a feral animal. "It doesn't matter now... . I don't need a bat to kill you. I can do it with my bare hands. I want to make you feel your life draining from you for all the trouble you caused me."

"Are you going to kill me like Samantha? Or Britney?" I questioned, trying to throw him off balance mentally. "Samantha was just another girl who didn't pay attention to you, but Britney... was the bane of your existence, wasn't she? You were always jealous of Britney weren't you? She had one thing you could never have... a father's love."

Without warning, he charged at me with his nostrils flaring like a raging bull. "You know nothing!"

As his arms made contact with my shoulders, my head hit the wall behind me as he pinned me, and I cried out as pain seized me, making my head throb. Lashing out in my own defense, I kicked upwards with my right leg, making contact with his groin.

Within seconds, he released me, falling to the floor with a hard thud.

"I know you are a coward!"

Without further hesitation, I ran into the kitchen, spotting the back door as he yelled after me. Fumbling with the locks, I couldn't open the door fast enough. Within seconds, he seemed to overcome his pain and charge into the kitchen wildly.

Glancing at the countertop, I saw a butcher block filled with knives. Without further thought, I grabbed the biggest one I could spot and held it up. "Stay away from me!"

He jerked his body forward in an apparent effort to gauge my response.

Surprised, I flinched, jumping backwards. "Don't!" I yelled.

Tensing his shoulders and bending his knees, he stretched out his hands in front of him slightly. "I don't think you have it in you," he said, grinding his teeth.

I slashed the air between us with the knife, trying to prevent him from bridging the gap.

Watching me with unblinking eyes, he laughed, taking a single step forward.

I held the knife out like a fencer, slicing the air with the tip of the blade. "Don't come any closer," I threatened, my voice shrill.

Testing the seriousness of my warning, he took another careful step. Extending his arms sideways with his palms up, he said, "What are you going to do, Miranda? Are you going to kill me?"

He reached out suddenly, extending his hand towards me.

By instinct, I struck, slicing his forearm clumsily with the blade.

Stepping backwards, he cried out, wincing. In a protected fashion, he grabbed his forearm, placing his hand over the wound before bringing his arm to his chest. He cradled it and looked at me in apparent shock.

Horrified by what I had done, I nearly dropped the knife. Watching droplets of blood splatter on the tile floor, I was unable to move in my shock. My eyes could not look away from the small pool which had formed, creating a ghastly image in my mind.

In my distraction, Carlos knocked me to the ground like a lion pouncing on its prey.

I landed on the tile floor so hard the breath was knocked out of my lungs as he landed on top of me. After an instance of numbing shock, my body exploded with pain like tiny electric surges running through my body. I shook uncontrollably and cried out as tears fell from my eyes. Moving my hand, I realized the knife was knocked out of my hands by the fall, sliding across the tile floor with a clang.

Refusing to give up, I tried to fight through my pain, but I realized I had lost a lot of my strength. I kicked at him, and he struck me across my face. Reeling from the burn of his slap, I could feel my limbs grow slack as if my body had given up on the fight.

Laughing at me, he took advantage of my momentary weakness and sat on my stomach, pinning me under him. He wrapped his hands around my throat, lifting up my head and hitting it on the floor beneath. "You're weak! I am strong!" he screamed wildly, his eyes afire with hatred.

Swinging my arms at him, my fists struggled to connect. My lungs burned, begging for air. The pressure in my head was nearing its breaking point. As my eyes grew heavy and my vision dimmed, I fought to remain conscious.

"Freeze!"

My eyes shot open abruptly in my disbelief.

Carlos' hold on me loosened as he turned his attention to Officer Jonstan.

The young officer, who had just entered the room, held his gun high in the air, aiming it at Carlos. "Get off of her!" he yelled with authority.

Carlos grinned at him. He raised his hands in front of him and slowly rose to his feet. "You got this all wrong, Officer Jonstan," he said, motioning towards me. "She hurt my sister."

Trying to speak, I clutched my throat, willing the pain of my crushed voice box away. I opened my mouth, ready to defend myself. However, nothing came out but a barely audible whisper. I could only give Officer Jonstan a pleading stare, hoping he could see through Carlos' lies.

Officer Jonstan, glanced at me as he kept his gun trained on Carlos. "Step away from the girl," he ordered, his body tense.

"If you don't believe me, my sister's body is in the living room," Carlos said with very little emotion.

Officer Jonstan hesitated, glancing back momentarily as if trying to see into the living room.

Carlos took the opportunity without hesitation, pushing Officer Jonstan's gun upward so that it wasn't aimed at him. They struggled for control of the weapon. Carlos grabbed the officer's wrist and hit it against the wall in an effort to make him drop it.

Fearing Officer Jonstan would lose control of the gun, I searched the floor for the knife that had slipped from my hands. Finding it across the room, I managed to get up and hobbled towards it. I snatched it up, hearing the officer scream. Turning on my heel, I saw that Carlos had Officer Jonstan's wrist twisted, and his back pinned up against the wall. The officer appeared as if he was about to drop the gun.

I ran towards them, holding the knife high in the air. With all of my might, I brought the knife down as hard as I could, burying the blade in Carlos' back.

Suddenly, everything stopped.

As if watching a slow motion movie, I watched as Carlos collapsed onto the tile floor. Landing on his stomach, his body went limp as his eyes stared out into space blankly. Blood stained the back of his shirt and drifted downward, gathering in a pool on the floor.

Officer Jonstan gained control over his gun, placing it back into his holster as he clutched his wrist. "Thanks," he said, breathing hard.

I nodded, remaining motionless. My heartbeat began to normalize, and my breathing slowed. Staring down at the body at my feet, I was transfixed. It was very clear that Carlos was dead. I had taken a life. It may have been in defense of another, but the burden was the same as if I had committed it in cold blood. I was no better in that moment than he had been when he took my sister's life.

"Detective Conner, the situation has been neutralized," Officer Jonstan said, acknowledging the senior officer that had just entered the room.

Appearing emotionless, she glanced from me to Officer Jonstan. "Neutralized?" she repeated, suddenly focusing on the young man's body on the floor.

"Yes," Officer Jonstan said, stepping towards her in apparent relief to be unharmed. "We have evidence that pointed to our suspect Carlos Burgos being the killer of Samantha Cole and Nastasia Moralez. If it wasn't for Ms. Moralez, I would have been his next victim. He almost took my gun."

"Did you call for the forensics team?" Detective Conner asked.

"No, I'll radio in now," he answered.

"Don't," the detective said calmly, withdrawing her gun and shooting him in the abdomen.

I screamed, feeling my legs buckle beneath me.

Officer Jonstan tried to hold onto the wall, but ended up sliding down, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. "Why?" he managed to ask, looking up at her with a pleading stare.

"You killed my son," she said, her voice cold.

Holding my hands over my mouth, I sobbed, watching Officer Jonstan breathe his last breath. My tears flowed freely down my face as I turned my attention back to the detective. She hadn't forgotten about me, holding the gun up in my direction.

"I had it all set up perfectly," she said, allowing her anger to show through her mask of indifference. "All you had to do was let your little boyfriend take the fall, but you couldn't leave it alone. You just had to know the truth."

Sobbing, I struggled to speak. "Why did you cover for him?" I cried. "You knew what he was... ."

"He was my son!" she shouted. "He was everything to me!"

Hoping to put some distance between the barrel of the gun and myself, I took a step back, wanting to inch my way behind the center island. "You accepted him for what he was, and just covered his tracks," I told her. "You are no better than him. You are just as much to blame for his crimes."

"His father couldn't accept him, but I could," she spat, grinding her teeth. "I knew what he was, and I accepted it. But you took him from me. You did that and you deserve to die!"

"How will you cover this one, detective?" I asked, inching back behind the counter.

"Easy," she said with a sadistic grin. "I will blame it all on you. You killed your sister and her friend out of jealousy. When Officer Jonstan and I came upon you in the act of killing Britney Burgos, you fought me for my gun, and the gun accidentally fired, killing the poor rookie. Then I killed you."

Shaking in anger, I shouted, "No one will ever believe that!"

"I can be very convincing," she said, adjusting her aim.

I closed my eyes and prepared myself for what death would feel like. Trying to encourage my anxiety to drain from my body, I reconciled with the fact that I was not getting out of this house alive. Even if I dove behind the counter as she shot at me, she had more bullets, and I was out of hiding places. There was nowhere to run.

Suddenly, I heard a scream, and my eyes sprang open. To my surprise, I saw Britney holding an iron fireplace poker run into the kitchen and strike Detective Conner in the back of the head with the object. The detective's eyes rolled backwards and she fell onto the tiled floor with a hard thud.

I looked from Britney's battered face to the detective on the floor and broke down into tears. "Thank you!" I cried, sobbing without restraint. "You saved my life."

Britney joined me in my tears, dropping the poker on the floor before calling the police for the second time that evening.

I learned later on that Detective Conner had intercepted the call so that emergency services and other officers on duty wouldn't respond. She expected her son to cover his tracks and knew that he was up to something when Britney's address was mentioned.

Although the detective took a hard hit to her head that would no doubt require stitches, she was alive and would spend many years in jail as an accessory to her son's crimes.

Britney was pretty banged up. Carlos had used the bat on her, hitting her in the forehead and giving her a concussion. The hit resulted in an abrasion and swelling, but other than that she was fine.

Except for a few bruises and a sore throat, there wasn't much wrong with me. My father showed up on the scene after a call from Mrs. Fayson, informing him of what she discovered. He insisted on taking me to the hospital, but I refused. I had to do something first.

Standing outside of the police station, I leaned against the side of my car and waited. It wasn't long until I found what I was looking for.

Within minutes of waiting, Caleb walked out the front door. Wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans, he appeared to have worn the same clothes for a few days. His face was pale, and his eyes were red. His hair was a mess, and he appeared as if he hadn't slept in days. As he descended the front steps, he made eye contact with me and froze. "You look horrible," he said honestly as he took in my appearance.

I managed to smile. "How were you planning on getting home?" I asked.

"I was going to walk," he said, descending the rest of the stairs and starting to move away from me.

"Wait, Caleb!" I shouted, catching up to him and forcing him to stop.

He crossed his arms in front of himself and stared down at me, appearing frustrated. "Still think I had something to do with your sister's death?"

I shook my head. "I never thought that," I told him sincerely. "Look, I know you are mad at me, and you never have to speak to me again... but just listen to what I have to say."

He stared blankly, but I took that to mean he was willing to listen.

Nervous, I shifted my weight from foot to foot. "I have been such a fool," I admitted, suddenly feeling my eyes grow damp and my insides turning to mush. "When you admitted that you had feelings for me, I didn't know what to think. No one has ever said those words to me. It was... surreal. The problem was... that I shouldn't have thought at all. I should have just told you that I love you, too."

His eyes widened at my revelation, and his breathing hitched in his throat.

"I have always loved you, and Nastasia knew it. That is why she never brought you over. She didn't want me to ever acknowledge those feelings. I let my sister go after you, because I was too much of a coward to admit my own feelings," I told him, feeling a tear escape my eye. "But if it is not too late, I would like to start over."

Caleb averted his eyes, remaining silent as he grappled with what I had just told him. When he was done, he looked at me with dark sapphire eyes. He pouted and asked, "Really?"

"Yes, really," I confirmed, waiting anxiously for his response.

He smiled sheepishly. "Well, then, my name is Caleb Mitchell," he said, extending his hand towards me. "What is yours?"

I laughed, feeling my heart grow warm in my chest. "My name is Miranda Moralez."

"Nice to meet you," he replied, moving his hand slowly from my grip.

I latched on tighter, pulling him towards me. "What would you say if we sealed this introduction with a kiss?"

He smiled shyly. "I thought you would never ask," he said as he scooped me into his strong arms, lifting me off the ground and bringing my face within inches of his. "I love you, Miranda Moralez."

"I love you, too, Caleb," I replied and kissed him softly.

THE END

* * * * *

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Thank you for reading "Shattered". For more information on upcoming novels, releases, freebies, promotions, etc., please join my mailing list by entering your email in the mailing list box on http://www.sandramadera.com and http://sandra-madera.blogspot.com or emailing me directly at smadera23@yahoo.com. Also, don't be shy and add me on social media. I love hearing form you. Tell me what you thought about my latest short or other ebooks by commenting online, submitting reviews or sending me an email. I read everything I am sent and do try to get back to everyone I can. Thanks!

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List of Literary Works by Sandra Madera

Short Stories:

The Collector

Overboard

Sangre Falls

Scattered

Shattered

Weeping Willow - Part One

Weeping Willow - Part Two

Novels and Trilogies:

Restraint

Lament: A Restraint Novel

Malcontent: A Restraint Novel

Wicked Magic: A Weeping Willow Novel

Wicked Love: A Weeping Willow Novel (coming soon!)

