I close her door behind me and head to my room, checking my phone as I stumble through the stuffy hall.

It’s been four days since I’ve heard from August. He came on so strong and then … crickets.

Maybe this is all a game to him.

Some guys get off on screwing with people’s heads.

Or maybe he realized I wasn’t going to be an easy lay and he found someone else to chase.

An hour later, I’m still wide awake, damp with a thin layer of sweat and staring at the ceiling. Vincent Monreaux’s ice-white smile lingers in my head along with those familiar piercing gray eyes. And the way she reacted—with potent and virulent anxiety. It only created more questions—questions I couldn’t ask her for fear of making things worse.

Much like the baby they lost all those years ago, I can’t help but wonder what other things they’ve neglected to tell me over the years. What else has been glossed over and rewritten for the sake of leaving the painful past buried deep in the ground?

Sitting straight up, it hits me … there’s an album in the living room.

Mama calls it a memento mori—a reminder of death and mortality. A shrine, of sorts, to my aunt Cynthia. Though she’s always asked me not to touch it. But that was before, though, when I was too young to understand.

Tiptoeing to the living room, I dig the faded peach photobook from the TV cabinet and flick on the lamp by the side table.

The number of times my parents have discussed Cynthia’s death in front of me, I can count on one hand. At first, it was because I was too little to understand. Later, it was because it was too painful to unbox those memories. I never pried. I didn’t once feel the need go digging. I knew what I needed to know—that Vincent Monreaux killed my aunt and the local authorities helped cover it up because his daddy paid them off.

I don’t blame my parents for tabling that kind of talk. They’d already lived it once. They didn’t need to go through it all over again for my sake. But there are gaps in what I know. In all my life, I’ve never been given the full picture.

Settling into the sofa, I flip open the album, immediately greeted with the soft, sweet image of Aunt Cynthia’s school portrait. It’s faded, and the colors are a little off, like someone put an Instagram filter over it, though it’s nothing but age.

I stare at her features, memorizing them and trying to determine if we really do look alike. I’ve seen this picture before at my grandparents’ house. Daddy says I’m her spitting image. Though I’ve always favored the Rose side. We share the same blonde waves. The same deep set ocean-blue eyes. The same pointy chin and slightly-upturned nose.

I wish I could’ve had the chance to meet her.

Mama said Aunt Cynthia had the kind of personality that entered the room before she did. And the most contagious belly laugh. Long legs too. She said all the boys wanted to date Cynthia, but she had her heart set on Vincent—her brother’s best friend.

Inhaling, I turn the page, only to be met with a clipped newspaper obituary.

CYNTHIA GLADYS ROSE. AGE 17.

Cynthia Gladys Rose passed away unexpectedly Thursday, October 18th. A junior at Clark High School, Cynthia excelled in the dramatic arts, with a particular affinity for theater and debate club. Her favorite pastimes included summers at her grandparents’ cottage in Vermont and annual family camping trips in the South Dakota badlands. Cynthia had recently toured Great Western State University, with future plans to apply to their pre-law program.

She leaves behind her parents, Lorelai and Conrad, her brother, Rich. Her paternal and maternal grandparents. Fifteen cousins, a host of close friends, and her beloved rescue terrier-mix, Winnie.

My eyes prick with tears that I swipe away the second they slide down my cheeks.

My poor sweet aunt. It isn’t fair that she wasn’t able to live long enough to see adulthood. Or that her life was summarized in two brief paragraphs.

My heart tightens and aches for my parents, for my grandparents, for Cynthia.

Drawing in a deeper breath, I page ahead to another clipped article. Brief and vague.

The body of a local female resident was discovered at the Monreaux Quarry late Saturday night. Police have determined her cause of death to be strangulation. An investigation is underway and no suspects have been officially named.

The next article is wrinkled and blotted in parts. Tears, maybe?

Police have identified the victim in last week’s homicide as seventeen-year-old Cynthia Rose, a local junior at Clark High School. The county coroner has confirmed her cause of death as strangulation. Police Chief Rod Holbach states, “We have narrowed our list of suspects tremendously in the past week, and I’m confident that Cynthia’s killer will soon be brought to justice.”

Tags: Winter Renshaw Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net