CHAPTER 1

If there's anything I know to be true, it's that appearances can be deceiving.

Take me for example – relatively unassuming, totally rocking the wide-eyed ingénue look, the kind of person who fades into the background – by all appearances a total non-threat, and yet people still want to kill me.

I suppose all the attention is flattering, in a way. It's nice to know that you matter to someone.

Of course, the whole "killing me" thing is relatively new, I suppose. It's not like I was surviving assassination attempts as a toddler, as epic as that sounds. The murder train has really only been on track for about a year and a half, which is honestly long enough in my opinion. Seeing suspicious strangers out of the corner of your eye and having to move to a new state and change your name can grow really tiresome after the first five times.

As of now, my name is Kit Munroe and I am but a humble barista in Elizabeth, Colorado. I like sticking to small towns; cities leave me feeling exposed and watched, but it's surprisingly easy to hide in a small town like Elizabeth.

Being a barista isn't exactly what I pictured myself doing for the rest of my life, but neither is constantly being on the run. I've lived in Elizabeth for about three weeks – a long enough time for me to settle in to some semblance of normality while I try to ignore the… thing hanging on my neck like a dead albatross. I know that I shouldn't get attached, but I like Elizabeth. Howie, the owner of the coffee shop where I work, was kind enough to let me rent the single apartment above his store. I can make little dinners in the kitchen and hang up fairy lights in my bedroom and have a row of succulents by the window that faces the street.

Sometimes it almost feels like I'm living a normal life, but then I have days like today. It started out normal enough, with me making drinks as usual. Looking back, I realize that I shouldn't have been surprised that the day turned sour; it was a Wednesday after all. Nothing good happens on a drizzly Wednesday morning.

In the lull between the morning rush and afternoon lunch break, I heard the bell hanging over the front door chime as two men walked in, hair slightly mussed from the rain outside. Seeing that they're not locals, my heart immediately jumped into my throat.

Calm down, I told myself exasperatedly, despite the feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong.

The taller of the two approached the counter, while his buddy grabbed a seat near the window. I somehow managed to squash the panic that was rising up in my throat and slapped my patented Customer Service Smile ™ on my face.

"Hello, sir," I said. "What can I get for you today?"

His brown eyes scanned the menu and he brushed a lock of his hair away from his face. "Hey, uh, I'll have two black coffees, thanks. You guys have food here?"

"Yeah," I responded. "I can make a mean sandwich, and we've got some peach pie if you're feeling daring."

He smiled. "I'll take you up on the sandwich, and I think my brother over there will appreciate the pie."

I smiled back, but still felt wary. Sure, the guy seemed normal enough, but there was an air about him; maybe the way he held himself, maybe the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but I wasn't going to let my guard down. Over by the window, his brother had pulled out a laptop and was staring intently at the screen.

"Haven't seen you fellas around here before," I said lightly as I grabbed a loaf of bread. "Not many newcomers here in Elizabeth."

If I'm going to be honest, this was a teensy bit hypocritical considering the fact that I'd only been in town for a few weeks, but I wasn't going to take any chances with these two.

The man smiled and ran a hand through his still-damp hair. "We're just passing through. Nice town you've got here."

"Thanks. Turkey or ham?"

"Ham. With mustard if you've got it."

"You're in luck," I said, reaching into the fridge.

I sliced the bread as slow as humanly possible while I tried to get a read off the newcomers. There was certainly something funny about them, but they weren't like the… others who had been the reason for me skipping towns in the past. Anyways, the thing around my neck – my surest warning sign for danger – wasn't acting up in ways it had in the past, so I assumed I was safe.

For now, at least.

"Would you like all this for here or to go?" I asked, as I cut the sandwich on the diagonal.

"I think we'll stick around," said the customer. "Wait until this rain stops at least. Hey, uh, do you know of anywhere in town we could stay tonight? Like a motel or something?"

I shook my head. "Sorry. Elizabeth is small. Nothing like that here. You'd have to go to the next town over – Castle Rock."

"Thanks," the stranger said, grabbing his food and coffee.

I nodded absent-mindedly and turned around to clean the counter. As I did so I heard the brother speak;

"Sam, you got me pie? I'm touched."

'Sam' laughed. "I knew if I didn't I'd never hear the end of it. But you should probably have more than pie for breakfast, Dean."

"Whatever," 'Dean' said through a mouthful of peaches and whipped cream. "Eat your ladyfingers, Sammy."

The bell over the front door chimed as my boss, Howard Warton, walked in, damp from the weather outside.

Howie is the physical manifestation of suburban America. A husband for nineteen years and father of two kids, Howie was in his mid-forties and owned about three pairs of slacks and eight different sweaters which he wore on a rotating basis. The man was the personification of the color beige. He had a good heart, though.

"Hiya, Kit. How've you been?" he asked with a smile stretching across his plump face.

I smiled too, despite myself. "Well, Howie, you asked me the same thing yesterday and nothing much has changed since then."

He laughed as he made his way behind the counter. "You're almost as fresh as my Beth."

"She's got an excuse, she's fifteen," I teased. "What's new with you, Howie?"

Quite unexpectedly, Howie blushed. I raised my eyebrows. "Anything you want to tell me?"

"Well," he began, his blush deepening by the second, "You know how the doc told me to start going for walks to fix up my ticker?"

"Yeah...?" I said slowly, not quite sure where the conversation was going.

"Well, Kit, you're not gonna believe this, but I think I met someone on one of them the other day, out by the field by the library. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, Kit."

This was beyond strange. Howie had been married to his wife Deb for over a decade and was the least likely person to have an affair. I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "Well, Howie, it's not really any of my business, but what about Deb?"

Howie blinked slowly, and for a second I thought his eyes looked filmy, almost like he had developed split-second cataracts. "Deb…" he muttered absent-mindedly, like he was in a dream.

Over by the window, the two brothers had gotten up and were heading to their car. Now, the last subject on Earth that I'm knowledgeable about has to be cars – you could tell me that I'm driving a Ferrari when I'm behind the wheel of a Pinto and I'd believe you – but even I could see that this car was something else. It was what my mom used to refer to back in the day as a "boat car"– a wide hood and bumper, characteristic of cars from a million years ago in the '50s and '60s. Other than that, I couldn't really say anything specific, other than the fact that the car oozed cool.

The rest of the day passed without incident; just a normal Wednesday in a small town.

That night, as I lay in bed and tried to fall asleep, my hand strayed to the thing around my neck. It was so hard to fall asleep most nights these days without clutching it as I drifted off. This thing and I… we were entwined in a sick, twisted fate somehow, something beyond my power of comprehension. It looked like a key, nothing special, not even that complicated – it actually resembled a key that I had years ago that unlocked my music box. But I could tell that it was so much more than just a key. For one, the dammed thing practically hummed with some energy. You know how, in the seconds before you get an electric shock, you can feel the energy between your hand and the door handle? It felt like that, kind of, but different –older, more powerful than electricity.

Appearances can be deceiving. It looked like a key, but…

Keys don't leave burn marks in people's skin.

When I awoke the nest morning, I was clutching the key in my hand like my life depended on it.

I headed down to the coffee shop at 7:30 sharp, just like every day, making sure to pick up the newspaper that was left by the doorstep. As I glanced down to read the headline, my heart stopped.

HOWARD WARTON, AGE 46, FOUND DEAD LAST NIGHT

A/N: Hey guys! I haven't written fic in a million years but I figured I'd try my hand at it again haha. This story is intended as a reader-insert written in first person POV – I hope to flesh this out as much as possible to make it feel like an actual season that you, the reader, are actively participating in. I've got a rough idea of how it will play out and I hope to upload chapters on a semi-regular basis (as regular as possible with my college classes haha). Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story and I always appreciate feedback!