When senior students at Lincoln High receive the same deadly text message, it falls upon Helena Gallagher and an unlikely companion to solve the mystery and catch the killer.
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High school student, Helena Gallagher is a murder fanatic. A devoted...
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It's here.
Judgement day.
Being asked "Are you still watching?' by Netflix is modern day doomsday. If you answer no, you're destined to move onto better things. Answer yes and you've sentenced yourself to another three hours of binge watching Killer King–the hot, new murder documentary everyone is talking about. And by everyone, I mean myself and the better half of Twitter. Some call it an obsession. Me? I prefer the term hobby. So, I enjoy murder? It's not in a 'I'm a psychopath' kind of way. It's more of an appreciation. A warped (totally healthy) appreciation.
Of course, my Mom doesn't see it that way. She'd rather I be more like Shaun–my brother. It's not enough that I'm best friends with him and his girlfriend. She wants me to spread my wings. Become a social butterfly. Even though Jasmine was my friend long before his girlfriend.
Besides, it's research. As a future defence lawyer, it's only right that I immerse myself in a world that will soon become my norm. Criminal offences. Killer motives. Court cases. These are all things that excite me. And whilst I didn't go as far as to write it on my application to Penn University, it definitely counts towards extra credit.
So–yes–in answer to Netflix's question, I am still watching. And dammit, I do not appreciate being judged. I bet Matt Murdock never received this amount of scrutiny? Elle Woods, too.
"Helena?" questions Mom, poking her head around my bedroom door.
Her raven hair hangs in long, wet ringlets, much like my own does after washing it. I don't say it a lot because personality wise, Mom and I are chalk and cheese, however, we do look a lot alike. Same blue eyes. Pale skin. Long legs. The only physical difference is our nose. I happened to inherit that from my father–whom I see twice a year in the Bahamas. Or at least that's what I'm told. Personally, I don't see it.
"Shower's free."
"Wait? You mean to say the unwashed look isn't working for me?" I ask, already leaving the safety of my bed to grab a towel.
I know how to take a hint.
"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, honey."
"Yeah, yeah," I reply, kissing her cheek as I breeze past. "You finished for the day?"
"Nope. Last class is in twenty minutes."
Mom teaches yoga from her study-turned-studio four days a week. It's her latest gig, although I must say, it suits her. Shaun set it all up for her–being the most patient among us–and off she went, in pursuit of her latest career change. It usually lasts six months before she sets out on a new challenge but next week marks eight and I'm holding out hope. Not that it really matters.
On paper, Mom is filthy rich and doesn't actually need to work. As the only living daughter of Fredrick Gallagher, she inherited the lot when he passed away ten years ago. Thousands, if not millions sits collecting dust in her bank account, just waiting for Shaun and I to jet off to college.
