It all started with the letters. Those small, threatening messages printed on antique paper with chard edges. “Watch your back, you never know what could be lurking behind you,” or “You’ll regret ever meeting me.”

At first I thought they were a joke, a little prank from one of the boys. After I’d find them they’d disappear, and a portion of my sealing wax would disappear also. My desk would be in disarray: ink splattered across my desk, papers strewn across it and scattered onto the floor, wax droplets everywhere and my candle still burning.

I didn’t understand. I couldn’t. Nothing was adding up, what could it have possibly meant? One of my siblings taking on one of my crafts, a newfound interest in my favorite hobby? I knew it had to be one of them. Maybe Toby? Or Andrea. Or perhaps Harvey.

It couldn’t have been Ella, for she was too young and not allowed to even think about lighting a candle, let alone melt wax and make a mess of my room. But Andrea. Oh, sweet Andrea, I wouldn’t put it past her to make trouble.

I just hadn’t expected this.

The police had arrived at my doorstep at 3:15. I had expected them to have information, Andrea had been missing for nearly a week at that point. But no, they asked to look around our house and take our fingerprints. I obliged, of course. I didn’t want to cause a problem.

They were in and out within the hour. But a deep pit formed in my gut, and an heavy sense of dread loomed over my head.

The next morning I woke up to find a letter on my desk. This one was sealed in my favorite wax and addressed in sloppy cursive. My desk was as it should be, nice and tidy. My overly active OCD would’ve gone rampant if it hadn’t been.

Everyone was still asleep.

I went over and peeled the letter open. A small pendent dropped into my hand, a sunflower. They were Andrea’s favorite. The letter had only three words...

Don’t. Tell. Anyone.

Oh Andrea. She was only sixteen. I couldn’t have imagined she’d do anyone harm. Or anyone was cause harm to her.

But then I noticed traces of ink on my fingers. They had been stained by the black substance. But I hadn’t written anything for the last couple days, and normally I would use blue ink, not black.

A few hours later there was an urgent knock at the door. The police had come back. And this time they did not seem as talkative.

Not even a second after I’d opened the door the officer spoke, “Sadie Hawkins, you’ve been charged with the murder of both Andrea Hawkins and Lucile Randol. You are coming with us.”

Without further notion handcuffs were shoved onto my wrists and I was taken to the patrol vehicle. My parents stood at the door with utter shock. “Wait, please you don’t understand I-“

“-Ma’am anything and everything you say can and will be used against you in court. Please, I suggest you remain silent.”

This wasn’t right. Something had gone wrong. Andrea wouldn’t have done this. But she’s dead.

Someone killed them both. And I’m going to find out who. I just need to know if Andrea was part of this or not. But deep down I knew. Andrea had murdered Lucile. And someone had killed Andrea.

This was going to get messy.