When senior students at Lincoln High receive the same deadly text message, it falls upon Helena Gallagher and an unlikely companion to solve the mystery and catch the killer.
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High school student, Helena Gallagher is a murder fanatic. A devoted...
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The careless sun seeps in through the gap in my curtains, causing me to wake up long before necessary. It shines right where my line of vision is, my head still resting on Elliot's chest. Memories of the night before play on a loop inside my mind. Prom. The text messages. Sleeping with Elliot.
What a night!
He's still snoozing next to me, his arm draped across my stomach. It's a nice sensation. Heavy. Safe. Light snores escape his pouting lips, the sight so precious I almost weep. The positioning of his head has his warm breath fanning my cheek. Tickling it. I don't want to wake him up, so I slyly wiggle myself free and slide from the bed. Thankfully, he's still dead to the world by the time I'm redressed and checking my phone for the time. Five, thirty AM.
My God!
I head downstairs, passing Mom sprawled out on the sofa; a blanket half covering her. No one else is up yet and I take it upon myself to get some investigating in, needing my mind to be doing something. Anything. Solving this case is of top priority.
"But first, coffee," I mutter to myself, grabbing some milk from the fridge.
As I'm pouring coffee granules into the grounder, my attention goes to the drawer where my birth certificate once lived. Mom's right. We're missing something here. Something vital. The killer is clever—that much is obvious—but everyone has their flaws. We all slip up from time to time. And if they were really inside our kitchen at some point, surely we should be looking for evidence?
I abandon my need for caffeine and head towards the drawer, peaking inside. Perhaps they left a trail? A clue, maybe?
Nothing looks out of the ordinary and I'm moments away from closing it when an old newspaper stares back at me. Mom always keeps them for the crosswords—a habit she's had since as far back as I can remember. Shaun once bought her an entire crossword book for Christmas and still—she insists on saving the ones she gets in each newspaper.
I pull it from its hiding place and study the filled in boxes, chilled to the bone. The words, Sin and Revenge are written in block capitals, amongst some other questionable phrases. I check the clues and soon realise that those are not the intended words for the puzzle. Whoever wrote this was clearly stating a message. A very angry one.
I turn the paper over, recognising the face splashed on the front cover from somewhere. A young, smiling boy. But who is he? I search my brain, desperate for some answers. Some clarity. Anything.
I read the headline, confirming that this boy—whoever he is—died at a high school party two years ago—age fifteen. He lived in a neighbouring town and didn't attend Lincoln.
So why do I recognise him?
For the life of me, I cant remember. His identity is on the tip on my tongue. Subconsciously there but not quite reachable. Then suddenly—out of nowhere—it hits me.
