I don't really have a lot to say, except that I hope you bear with me on this one. I know, I know – I killed Meredith. If you can get over that and just embrace what happens, you might actually enjoy it… :
The year is 1941. I shall never forget the weekend Meredith died. The rain showered across Seattle with relentless contempt, thunder rumbling in the distance and lightning sporadically illuminating the obscured city. For Meredith's horrifying death, I was alone. I, Richard Webber, was the only person who truly knew her.
It is now Sunday evening and I had just begun to write Meredith's story, an autobiography if you will, when there was a persistent rap at my door. I finished typing my sentence, pondering momentarily to conclude the aptness of my wording, indifferent to the uninvited visitor on my doorstep. Finally, I graced the guest with my presence. A detective. His face was familiar to me for some reason. Shepherd I think he said his name was, although it did not ring a bell.
He isn't a particularly tall man, only average in height. He is however, blessed with good looks. His dark curls frame his tanned face perfectly and those cerulean eyes have surely broken a heart or two in the past. He has a calm demeanour; almost friendly, evident by the small smile he gives me as he steps into my apartment and explains that he is from the Homicide Bureau. Shepherd is investigating the murder of Meredith Grey, a close friend of mine and the frequent object of my affection.