Prologue
"Father?" I asked, hugging my sides. "Mother?"
Neither f them would look at me, talk to me. It was heartbreaking. The bubble in my throat refused to subside, causing tears to pour down my cheeks. Merely last week, I would not have foreseen myself in this situation. Hardly! Had it been only last week when Mary Alice was braiding my hair? Had it been only last week when I told her about Miles Harford? Had it been only seven days ago?
"Cynthia," my mother crooned, pulling me into a tight hug. I could feel her tears soaking into my nightgown. Why had they been so distant, like it was all their fault. Of course, I would blame myself if my daughter was murdered. But my mother and father had nothing to do with Mary's death.
I sucked in a deep breath, and smiled halfheartedly. "Mother, it's all right." I patted her back while my father's tears ran silently down his face. He wasn't a tall man, he had pale skin and almost as pale blonde hair. Opposed to our mother, who always wore white dresses and had her dark hair falling over her shoulders in waves. She was a good three inches taller than father. Mary Alice and I had always kid about the height ratio of our parents. Now...it didn't seem humorous.
Ever since the funeral, neither one of my parents would look me in the eye. Had it been my fault? Could I have stopped it somehow? I wasn't even at home, I had been at a boy's home. Miles Harford. Such a beautiful, wonderful person had cost me of my family. He hadn't spoke to me since Mary's death. At only nineteen, my sister had been 4'10 and weighed almost 102lbs. Mary had black hair that fell in curls down her back. Oh, she cherished her hair. Her skin had been tan like our mother's, with features so small and doll-like. Almost graceful, she seemed to dance when she walked and sing when she spoke.
I was the exact opposite. My skin had always been ghastly pale, with an odd mixture of blonde and brown hair that wasn't as smooth and perfect as Mary Alice's. I stood at 5'7 and was more or less curvy. Fortunately in the right places. Luckily, I hadn't fell short in the Brandon's famous good genes. Never had I had a blemish on my skin, minus a beauty mark under my left eye. Being fifteen was a bad year for me. Being sixteen will be the most remembered year for me though, I know. It's the year my darling sister, Mary Alice, was murdered.