Prologue
"You're lucky you didn't go with him, Miss" the police officer had said. "It was to be expected, considering his profession…"
Lucky. Lucky that my father, the only family I had, had been murdered.
That I was all alone.
I should've screamed in his face. I should've yelled and raged and spat at the tired, resigned look on his face.
This was just another assignment to him, wasn't it? Just another case on his fucking profile.
How would he feel if he'd been the one to be cut open by some deranged psychopathic bastard, and his children became orphans?
He was a police officer. His profession wasn't any more dangerous than an investigative journalist's. His children would've been lucky then too, wouldn't they, by not going out with their father?
Unfortunately, the news of Dad's death had me in a chokehold, shutting off my voice that day, and all I'd been able to do was stare and nod.
Well, maybe I was lucky in a way. If the killer had struck even a few months ago, I would've ended up in the system.
I sighed as more and more people filed in. I knew the neighbours and Dad's friends and colleagues, but that was about it. I vaguely recognised the faces of distant relatives and college friends from photo albums, but they were all strangers to me otherwise.
My chest burned and my hands shook. I swallowed as I stared at all their faces, nodding when they flocked over to me, telling me how sorry and sad they all were, and how hurt they were by the loss. But were they? They'd never bothered with Dad before he'd died, and I knew they wouldn't give a damn about him––or me––once the funeral was over.
I sat ramrod straight in my seat as various people went to the dais, giving speeches with pretty words and nothing personal whatsoever. No memories together, no quirks of his they loved or hated. Nothing about who Dad was; just another generic spiel about his kindness, generosity and all that rot.
'All rehearsed. All insincere,' a part of me spat.
I couldn't stand up from my chair when I was asked to speak; my legs shivered and collapsed as soon as I tried. Murmurs rose around me, but I couldn't care less.
I wanted to punch someone. I needed them to scorch and sting the way I did. To scream the way I wanted to.
"Oh, Cynthe," Dad's best friend, Oliver Wri, patted my arm, his wife, Taylor, rubbing my shoulder softly. "It's alright," he whispered. "He's not gone. He's in your heart, alright? He'll always be in your heart."
I sniffled. It wasn't true. He might've been in my heart, but that didn't mean he was here. That didn't mean I could hear his laughter again, or feel him ruffle my hair and call me 'Squirt'.
Jeremiah Greyson was gone, and I wish he'd taken me with him.
