Confession

Two down

"Misty Sanders was killed this morning."

My mother says it casually, like she's commenting on the weather, her hands idle in the sink.
Sometimes I wonder if she stands there just to be seen through the window, pretending to rinse dishes so the neighbours think she's busy, not just watching them. The plates are still stacked beside her, untouched.

Her words cut through the haze of my morning fatigue, dragging me into the day whether I'm ready or not. That makes two. Two people in one month.

"How did she die?" I ask, sliding into my usual chair at the table, the one with the leg that wobbles if you lean too far left.

"Elena, really," she scolds, spinning around with a dish towel clenched in her hands. "You shouldn't ask things like that. It's unseemly."

She gives me that look again—the one that's meant to shame me into silence. I used to flinch at it. Now, I just blink and pretend to care.

What's the point in pretending death is anything but what it is? Someone else is dead. In this town. Again.

Rose Valley doesn't need good manners right now. It needs answers.

I remember reading somewhere that if you kill three people, it qualifies as serial murder.
Unless, of course, it's not one killer. That would mean there's more than one monster lurking here. Somehow, I find that even less comforting.

I reach across the table for the newspaper, dodging the overripe bananas and the polished apples no one ever eats in the fruit bowl. The headline's already there, bold and heavy.
Gossip moves faster than truth in this town, but Rose Valley's reporters are always just behind it, panting to catch up.

Still, I'm surprised they know how she died so soon. Execution-style. Shot in the back of the head. Mutilations to the hands and feet.

Same as Martin Peters. Same pattern. Same silence.

My stomach twists. I push the paper away, its ink smudging slightly under my fingertips. The thought of breakfast suddenly makes me nauseous, which would only irritate my mother.
Maybe she'd even throw out the old accusation again, say I'm starving myself like I did when I wouldn't touch her meatloaf experiment. That didn't end well.

Still, I force spoonfuls of cereal past the lump in my throat, pretending to care about her thoughts on repainting the front door. She wants blue. I suggest sage green—if only to disagree. She tells me she's already bought the paint.

Of course, she has.

Upstairs, I slip into my room and pull on my school uniform. Rose Valley has a fondness for order—things clean, pretty, and indistinguishable.

Black skirts. White shirts. Regulate everything. Uniformity as tradition.
It's all designed to flatten out differences, to make us manageable. Quiet.

I like the skirts, though.

A burst of laughter cuts through the stillness. I pause, drawn toward the sound. My window groans as I push it open and lean out. The morning air is cool and smells like wet stone and lilacs.

There they are. Across the street, Alex Delcara and his friends stalk the pavement like they own it. Their voices echo off the houses, too loud for this hour. Too alive.

My nose scrunches in automatic distaste. I shut the window hard.

I brush out my dark hair, smooth my collar, and grab my bag. On autopilot, I walk to the end of my road to wait for Melody, like I've done every day for the past four years, ever since freshman year made us friends.