My name is Vaughn Mason Litius. It's an unusual name but I myself have grown quite fond of it. Who else can say they know a Vaughn or a Litius or someone who recites their full name when asked? None, I'm sure you answered to all three.
The truth is I'm a very strange man, and I'm sure many of my neighbours will agree with my statement. In the rare time that I leave the modest comfort of my New York apartment, I spend people watching by the river. But mostly, I look over documents for clues like I have done ever since the strange case of Autumn Olivia Hastings came to light in the November of 2009.
On Saturday, November 14th I remember picking up my daily newspaper only a day after the tragic murder. And there, her face smiled at me from the front page. LOCAL GIRL FOUND DEAD IN NEIGHBOURS' BACKYARD. Morbid curiosity was what kept me interested in the story. I waited for an answer to rise but none did, it seemed like the impossible question.
I realised in the early months of 2010, it was what I'd been looking for. Typical writers' block had been a nuisance that year. My publicist had quit around Christmas time so I had nothing to do.
Soon, my curiosity grew. Autumn Olivia Hastings was a strange mystery, it was over-whelming and confusing. How was that a sweet, smart girl with seemingly no enemies could end up murdered in the DiLaurentis backyard? I looked up the name Autumn Olivia Hastings again and again. My walls were soon covered in notes, diagrams of Autumn Olivia Hastings.
My attention had wavered from a simple novel about alien and cowboys. All child's play compared to solving a murder. Not even my depressing reality-based book about giving up on dreams and going from pay-check to pay-check could compare. Not even my love and joy, my tale of one-sided love could utterly compare to this new tale I had.
Suddenly, I was not simply Vaughn or Mason. I was Vaugh Mason Litius, writer, musician and most of all murder-solver.
I will warn you now, this story is gruesome and dark at many points. Trust me, I will not hold a grudge if you were to close this book and put it back where you found it. In fact, if you're even half-sane you will do as I warn and never read another word I write. This story begins of a dark and stormy night on the funeral of Autumn Olivia Hastings. From there, my story will only get darker and your chances of remaining free of trauma will lessen the more words you read. I warn you now, look away. Pretend that this story has a happy ending if you must. You can pretend that the murder of Autumn Olivia Hastings was solved and that her murderer was locked in jail, with the key thrown away.
Or you can read on and find out the truth.