52 Barn Street

◾CHAPTER V◾

I woke up from a nightmare breathless and slightly disoriented. The digital wall clock on the adjacent wall to the bed read fifteen minutes past eight, a little over the I usually get up.

The sun was up already, rays of brilliant sunshine filtered into the room illuminating specks of dust floating in the air.

Images from the nightmare swam in front of my eyes. I blinked them away with a sigh.

I needed some fresh air to clear my head and then a hot cup of coffee to invigorate my system. I swung my legs out my bed, padded down the stairs and to the kitchen.

My lips tugged up in a small smile on sighting the surprise awaiting me on the kitchen island -breakfast, coffee in a thermos flask and a note. It read:
Out on a book club meeting. Hope you enjoy breakfast. Love, Mom.

"You're an angel, mom, " I breathed. I took a sip of the coffee in the thermos flask relishing in the taste of warm coffee, cream and a hint of honey-just the way I liked it.

I was glad she had decided to attend the book club meeting. She had almost completely shut herself off at home grieving.

My father had first met my mother at a book club meeting. Growing up, I had heard the story more times than I could count on both hands.

My mother was a bookworm and so was he. They had bonded over like passions. Although my father enjoyed history, politics and general non-fiction, my mother adored the world of fiction and endless imaginations.

I ran my fingers across the of several books sitted on the sturdy bookshelf in the living room. My parents did not pass on any of their bookworm genes to me though. Rather than reading a story, I preferred living one. I preferred creating one and the thrill of experiencing one.

Life itself is like a story, with unexpected plot twists. It could be wonderful or it could be a hellish nightmare, life, I mean.

My fingers settled on a book with a black coloured spine and gold embellishments. It had to be my father's favorite. I remember it being in his hands countless of times.

He had tried reading it to me, but I don't think I had been in any way interested in regent France or the French revolution. He would shake his head gently and let out a chuckle. And then he'd say;

"There's so much you can learn from this, my dear."
My ten-year-old self never did understand.

I pulled the book out of the shelf but gasped as it accidentally slipped out of my fingers. Some papers fell out of the book but I paid them no heed until I picked them up and had a closer look at them.

My breath hitched.

In my hands, these were no ordinary papers. These were threat notes sent to my father and they were all dated. And then a picture of my family with red X marks on our faces.

I felt my knees weaken as I stumbled back in shock.
✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

I knew my way around the precinct like I knew the back of my palm. I strode down the left corridor only stopping once I had reached Detective Stuart's office.

"May I come in? " I placed a swift knock on the solid oak door in front of me before promptly walking in.

"Danica, dear, I wasn't expecting you at all. Come in, sit down. What do you need help with?" His smile was tender and fatherly.

"This." I placed a small brown envelope containing the threat notes I had found earlier that morning on the table and slid it towards him.