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.