|PRETEND|

"This was my home." I said, looking up at the magnificent house in front of us.

He let a slight whistle escape his lips as he peered up at it with amazed eyes. "Nice place."

"Yeah, it is... Shall we?" I asked, motioning to the front door.

"Absolutely." He said with his most charming smile. He started toward the door, and I followed after him.

We both walked through the door at the same time. I headed straight for the stairs with Larson close behind me.

My room door hung open this time, but it's not like that made a difference for me, I would go in either way.

That wasn't the only difference though, not even close. The room door was closed off with caution tape, and many of my things were bagged up in evidence bags. My bed was just a mattress now, and my stuffed animals lay in a pile in the corner. Almost everything on my dresser had been bagged except for my jewelry box, which seemed untouched.

"Whoa.."

I jumped at the sound of Larson's voice behind me.

"Sorry.. I'm guessing this wasn't like this before?" He said, reading my expression.

I'm sure my frozen posture gave it away, or either the horror stricken look that painted my face. This scene before me was not the same, not even in the slightest of ways. No, this scene was a crime scene.

"I was murdered, Larson." I finally got that out after getting over the initial shock. What else could this all mean?

I quickly hovered over to my jewelry box as usual, not even bothering to make my actions look natural. I don't have time for that anymore, and I especially don't have time to consider how much I resemble a blinded moth.

Forgetting that I'm a ghost, my hand went right through it when I reached for the tiny drawer handle. "Crap, still can't open it." I muttered.

Larson leaned forward to give it a try. His fingers seemed to really grab on to it. It was confirmed when he pulled the drawer open. "See, you just have to concentrate. We're dead, we can do whatever we want." His smile widened when he said that last part. I've never met someone that was so comfortable with death as Larson was. In a way, it's a relief.

The next drawer was the one with the secret note inside. I rolled up my baggy sleeves, then closed my eyes and reached for it, imagining the handle between my fingers. I envisioned myself pulling it open. Suddenly, I did it. I would have celebrated, but I was no longer in the mood.

There it was, folded ever so neatly; the note I had been craving to read.

I held it in my hand now, hesitant to read it. It's just a thin slice of tree, but it could change everything.

Larson's head was just above my shoulder, and his cherry lips were in my ear. "Open it." He said softly, he could probably feel the anticipation in the air.

I slowly unfolded it, careful not to read a single word until it was completely stretched out.

The writing was in red, cursive letters, and it expanded only as a single line across the middle of the paper. It read It's your fault this happened..

The writing was perfect, too perfect to have been written in a hurry. The penman took their time to write this; they preplanned its delivery.

Larson, who was still close behind me, read over my shoulder. "It's your fault this happened?" He asked, just as confused as I am. "Who wrote that?"

My answer was definite; not a doubt in my mind contradicted it. "My killer. My killer left this here."

I reread the elegantly written words a few more times. They didn't change, and neither did my mind. I knew this was the handwriting of the person who took my life, and I was determined now more than ever to find out who it was.

I turned to face Larson, but he was no longer behind me. Instead, he stood by my window. My broken window?

"Have you noticed this before?" He asked, kneeling down for a closer look.

Shards of broken glass were scattered on the floor below, and a cool breeze blew in from the glassless window pane. "No. I haven't." I felt dumb for not noticing it before, I've been here hundreds of times. "Maybe the police did it on accident?" I said, trying to give an excuse.

"No, this was done from the outside. The glass fell inside the window..." Larson said, still carefully searching over the scene.

"How, we're on the second floor?" I asked.

We both stuck our head through the window; vines snaked up the wall like several green serpents. "They climbed the foliage I guess." Larson offered.

"Who can do that? It's so high up...and dangerous.." I said.

"Someone who was desperate to get inside.." I don't think he was trying to scare me, but his words were haunting.

Who hated me enough to climb the wall and leave me a creepy note, then murder me? None of this made any sense at all. What did I do wrong to make them hate me?

"Maybe someone threw a stone and broke it..." I said, my voice quivered.

He stared at me with melancholy eyes, "then there would be some glass left in the pane. The glass was carefully removed so someone could crawl through without getting cut." His words were true, I couldn't imagine any other reasonable explanation.

I unfroze, "let's go, we have to keep searching." I said, tugging on Larson's shirt sleeve. We left the room, and headed back out into the fresh breeze. I nearly ran around to the side of the house that had the foliage growing up the side leading to my window.

It looked even higher from the outside, and risky. The vines looked even more unsturdy from this view. This is what my killer saw. They looked up this wall too, and for whatever reason, they decided to climb it. They decided to take the life of a helpless girl soon after. How does one reach a decision like that?