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.”