Prologue:
Hey, I'm Macey.
I'm dead.
Oh, well, I suppose not.
It's a long story, but I think I can make your time worth it.
You see, my mom and I, we have a happy, blissful, unattached life. We live in this cozy two story victorian, far out where no one can reach us. Untouchable by society. Nobody would ever find us here, and we wouldn't want them to, anyway.
Mom and I, we went off the grid, about seven years back. There were a lot of problems that we couldn't be bothered to deal with, such as her no-good ex boyfriend, a faulty law suit, and just plain stressfilled situations.
I remember how one night she came home, exhausted, plumped herself on the sofa and wished everything would just go away, that we could disapear. We laughed at that, talking about how cool that would be and making up plans for our escape the rest of the night.
I obviously thought it was just a playfull conversation that we'd forget about the next day, and I thought she did too, but a week later she stormed into the house, knees bruised and clothes filthy, and started carelessly shoving clothes and money into suit cases, telling me we needed to leave. She was completely panicked, no use to ask her for an explanation; I just nodded my head and repeated her actions. I even noticed her holstering a gun in the inside pocket of her coat when she thought I wasn't looking. When we were running to the car, she kept looking behind us, as if we were being followed, but sighed in relief each time.
It seemed to be a long roadtrip, so I fell asleep. The next morning she woke me up, telling me to start walking. We trailed the suitcases behind us for miles, until finally reaching our current home.
She told me no one would come looking for us, that she arranged everything. She faked our deaths. And it wouldn't be hard, really. She was a high-class lawer, the best of the best, buying death would have been easy.
I never questioned her about that night, and why we left in such a hurry, because whenever I tried to bring it up, she just shut the topic down. Oh, I should've tried harder, shouldn't have I?
Because, here's the thing:
Now she's dead. And it wasn't just your boring natural cause crap. Oh no. It was a homocide.
And you know what? I'm going to find out who murdered my mother. And my money's on the person she panicly ran away from that night seven years ago, when I was only thirteen.
Care to join me?
