My mother was never exactly known for her comedic prowess, but it didn’t stop her trying. That’s why, when I found the note six months after her death, I couldn’t help but huff out a chuckle. I never expected to find a joke from the dead in my mother’s library, and she was the empress of gory thrillers. But then again, maybe I should have expected it?

Of course she was murdered. It was premeditated, too. How long had the killer had her in their sights? How many hours must they have spent thinking about the details, exactly how to do it, when, why?

“Why?” is always the hardest question to answer, but it’s not exactly easy to ask, either. Why had she done it? Why did she think my mother’s life wasn’t one that deserved to run its course? Why did she think the children left behind wouldn’t mourn, wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t feel crushed by the weight of the guilt at being unable to help their mother? Why couldn’t I see it was going to happen? Why couldn’t I stop her?

I feel the sting of tears as I place the note back where I found it. Maybe that’s why she chose thrillers; to live out some kind of fantasy where she could die over and over again, in all kinds of different ways. To try and kill that part of herself. But despite the rows upon rows of bestselling books that laden her shelves, that desire won out in the end. She both won and lost against herself.

Not all murders are mysteries, and not all mysteries end in murders. I have no doubts about what happened. How could I? I saw it with my own eyes, after all. The red bath tub. The gaping holes in flesh that I thought was eternal. I had always thought that she was made of warmth, but she was cold. I thought her veins were filled with morning sunlight. But then again, I had never seen my mother bleed until she was murdered by the mystery that was her own mind.

In the public eye, mother was fine. She shared her stories with her adoring public, laughing at the tropes that she just couldn't resist. But that wasn't her.

Behind closed doors she was paranoid, convinced someone was following her. I was so glad to be away from her when I finally moved out, now that moment floods me with gilt.

Page after page I flicked through her stories, again and again. Somewhere there had to be a hint. She used to talk about how she took inspiration from the real world for her stories.

I tap at the window made me freeze. Slowly I turned, only to see a branch rocking in the stormy winds. I sighed, not aware of how tense I was. Whoever had interest in my mother had no reason to show interest in me.

I returned my attention to the books strewn across the table in front of me. Pages picked at random, pages chosen from wedding dates and birthdays. I don't know what she could possibly hide in her writing but somehow, I knew there had to be something.

My eyes past over a paragraph from her latest book, a description of the first victims kitchen. Square table with four chairs, the black counter tops, the sink looking out the window into the garden. I slowly looked around at the room from the book.

I grabbed the book and read carefully. The rest of the house was different but the kitchen was what mattered, that was where the sighting was. I read as the first victim stood doing her dishes and glimpsed a figure in the garden.

Was this it? Wad this her clue? I grabbed another book. Another room. I took the book in mothers bedroom. The colours were wrong but the layout undeniable. And just as I feared, another sighting.

I prayed my eyes were playing tricks on me as I glanced out the window. It was just a shadow in the storm, a shadow in the corner of my eye. It had to be, I told myself this again, trying desperately to make it true.

I needed another book, another clue. The living room this time. Mother refused to come in here in her last few months. She insisted it was too open.

I agreed.

I stood in the doorway, looking across the room at the undeniable figure at the window. My heart wanted to leap from my chest, I wanted to turn and run yet my legs wouldn't move. I was living one of my mothers books, and I knew how those ended for the victims in this house.

I realised then, mother was right to be so paranoid.

Most mothers are nurses, possibly school teachers, but my my mom was a writer. Not just any writer an author of well known thrillers. Everywhere I go: “Hey has your mom finished that new book yet?” or “Can I come over to your house to met your mom?”. Don’t get me wrong I love my mother, but after her passing I was mostly relieved of all the comments and questions that bombarded my everyday life. That was until people gave me their sympathy which made me wish she were still alive. Collectively after the whole funeral mess I decided to go into her old library of books and try to feel some connection with her. Some of the books were collateral damage including some of the ones she wrote. Books were scattered all across the room, in stacks, and on tables. It was almost like out of a horror movie. Something caught the corner out of my eye. On a table there lay a copy of the last book my mom wrote but never published. It lay on the edge of the table with absolutely nothing else around it. There was a page sticking out. I slipped out the page to keep from wrinkling but the page was actually a note. The paper still seemed fresh and crisp and white. It read: “I was murdered, do not laugh.” I looked around the room as to see if there was some kind of prank camera and someone was about to round the corner with a microphone and video camera. Nothing happened but there came a knock from the front door. To scarred to move, my mind raced 150 miles an hour. One thought came across my mind: “Run.”