"Alright, Reaper," I groan, rolling onto my back, "time to get up. I have chores to do and you need to lose thirty pounds."
My tabby cat yawns and lets his head fall back onto the hardwood floor with a loud thump. I shake my head, laughing. Typical. I'm serious, he's taken the concept of a cat nap to a whole new level. One time, I came back from a double shift at the Greasy Spoon and found him in the exact same position he'd been in when I left eight hours earlier. I admit, I love him for it. He's been my only real companion besides my mom since I started high school. I rely on him for a lot of things that I shouldn't. Heck, I joined him on the floor this morning for a quick pep-talk and some catly advice! All I really got was a series of yawns and a few grunts. Whatever.
Grinning, I push myself up and head to the kitchen and the waiting piles of dishes. My mom is at the table, staring at our tiny T.V.
"Hey," I murmur, "how ya feelin'?"
Her head snaps up, her bloodshot eyes meeting mine. "Oh, you know," she smiles slightly, "a little tumor here, a little surgery there."
My good mood fades a little, "Any word from Dr. Keppin?"
"Oh, sweetheart," she shakes her head, "you don't need to worry about that! You've already got so much on your plate with the job and taking care of me and Reaper. Let me handle the medical stuff, okay?"
I watch her for a moment, taking in her bedraggled appearance. Her hair's cut short for maintenance reasons and her features are sunken and pale. She lost weight rapidly since the first surgery and ever since then she's been deathly thin. If the cancer isn't going to kill her, the depression sure is.
I stoop and lay a kiss on her forehead, "Okay. I'm going to go grab the mail."
"Okay, P.J.," Mom nods, "tell me if there's anything from the hospital."
"Yes, ma'am," I mock solute before heading out the kitchen door.
It's hot and humid outside, as can be expected in our little Virginia town. Our summers are never mild; no, siree. In Beckett, it's all or nothing. Usually all. Our food, our talk, our neighbors. Everything is all in.
Sighing, I trudge across our spotty front yard to our rusting mailbox. It's half-open, letters and advertisements spilling out onto the dusty ground. Since when do we get so much mail? I wonder, grabbing the massive stack and sifting through it. Bills, notices, magazine subscriptions and...a letter to me?
It's faded and yellow, the envelope almost a parchment. It has a strange seal over the back: a twisted grapevine encircling a sword, some sort of branch, and an envelope. Peggy Jane Irving-Russell, it reads across the front in neat print. Oddly enough, there's no address or postage stamp.
"P.J.?" I hear my mom's weak call, "What's taking so long?"
"Coming!" I yell, tucking the letter under my arm and heading back towards our tiny bungalow.
As I step back inside, Mom cocks an eyebrow at me, curious. I shrug and place everything but the letter in front in front of her on the table. I'm not sure if I should show it to her or not. She might take it the wrong way and start to worry about it, which I can't have. Maybe I'll just read over it first and then tell her based what it says. There we go, P.J., that's a plan!
"Ugh," Mom groans, "there's nothing here but bills and ads."
I chuckle, "Yeah, because we usually get so many personal letters."
"Young lady!" She gives me a stern look, "What did I say about sarcasm in this house?"
Instead of responding, I make a break for my room. Unfortunately, I don't escape the last few jabs of her scolding. Once inside my tiny closet of a bedroom with the door shut, I plop down on my creaking bed, flipping the letter over in my hands. Here goes nothing, I think, tearing it open and unfolding it.
Dear Ms. Irving-Russel,
I am truly saddened that it is my task to tell you that your father, Peter Falcon Russel, was found dead after ten years of being M.I.A. You must think that he was a simple salesman, as was his cover, that traveled around the country. That was a fallacy told to all to protect his true identity: the single best intelligence officer working for a secret department of the government. Though I cannot tell you much about his past, I can give you this: your father had one if the most successful spy rings in history. He called it "the Grapevine." Though he did not leave any last words for you, he left a sort of scavenger hunt for you all over the country. You can follow it, that is your choice. Just know this: your father was fighting some of the most dangerous criminals on this Earth and that hunt could tell not only you but many others why he went missing and how he died. I suggest that you take this opportunity. If you do, here is the first place to which you must go:
890 Barknam St.
Appledale, Maine
Sincerely,
C.G.
