The world moved in a blur as Rosalie knelt upon the sanctified ground on which she had promised herself and God she would never mar with her presence.

The azaleas that provided shade and beauty to what was once a harmless schoolhouse playground marked what Rosalie thought of as Alexander Sedona's final resting place. It was the last place her mind was able to picture him.

Murderers shall not trespass upon the souls of innocent victims.

Rosalie remembered those words. They were never her words, but they stuck in her head as clearly as if they were. The source was irrelevant.

The cat meowed incessantly, but Rosalie barely heard. Instead, her eyes glued themselves to the angelic figure that lay in a pose of ultimate tranquillity. With blonde hair that shone like a halo and blue eyes that still stared toward the sky, the angel looked no more than twenty. Rosalie was stunned by the mere presence of the breathtaking girl.

Never in her lifetime had Rosalie seen anything so beautiful as the woman who rested within the shadows of the pink azaleas.

It took a few moments before the reality of the situation set in. The young woman had been defiled, stained with blood that couldn't destroy the ethereal. It bloomed over the centre of her body like a rose that had lost its petals.

Even angels fall.

Rosalie could feel the tears falling down her cheeks suddenly, hard and fast and leaving a trail of grief upon her time-worn face. No matter how she tried to conceal the evidence, Rosalie had the look of one who had seen too much hardship. Perhaps there was a time when her face still contained the kind of peace and hope apparent in the vast blue eyes cast heavenward. If it existed, it was a time long forgotten.

Footsteps walked by, the sound of practical yet daringly fashionable summer sandals against the pavement.

"Miss Andrews, are you alright? Do you need help?"

Rosalie raised her eyes in the direction of the voice. Her body was trembling as she nodded. No matter how hard Rosalie tried, the words wouldn't come out. Her hand flew to her face as she recognised the plain oval face and mousy brown hair of Irene Miller. Like Rosalie, Irene already looked ten years older than she was, although the girl of twenty-five was still young enough to pretend otherwise.

Irene was a receptionist for the tailor's shop, which also served as the dry cleaning service. It was one of the few businesses in Oaksbury still busy enough to merit a receptionist.

"Miss Andrews, I'm going to call for help. I think you might be having a stroke or something." Irene pulled out a cell phone nervously. "Hello, can you connect me to the Sheriff's office? There's an emergency by the old red schoolhouse."

The young people in Oaksbury, what few the town had, had given in to modern distractions like cell phones and televisions. It was something everyone treated as a kind of shameful secret. There was no 911, just a rotating staff of old ladies who'd connect you to the correct person if you had a problem.

The small town wasn't large enough for 911, ambulances, or much more than a two-floor hospital with woefully outdated equipment. Oaksbury was the kind of town where the Sheriff was also the coroner, and the police station and the jail were the same building. The courthouse registered birth and death certificates, marriage licenses, and wills.

Anything in life more complicated than that was either left to sort itself out or sent to Milford, the closest place of any significant population. Part of living in an area like Oaksbury was a level of self-sufficiency. Disputes were sorted out without mediation, and when the Good Lord decided a person's heart had enough fried pork chops for one lifetime, that was that.

Somehow, people still lived well into their eighties and beyond.

Milford had a hospital, a proper police department, jail, fire department, and everything else most imagined necessary for life. They even had wires that brought them high-speed internet access and cable television, something that would cost the treasury of Oaksbury to bring to a place of fewer than eight hundred people.

The people of Oaksbury were unaffected because they chose to be. Babies were born easily and naturally and by the grace of God. People died quietly and without fanfare, again chalked up to the whim of a higher power. It was all part of a circle of inevitability. Rosalie had long ago succumbed to the stoic resignation of how things were.

Rosalie saw Irene step over the little gate. The high-pitched scream that followed was more effective than any cell phone.

"Shh. You'll wake the girl." Rosalie's shock expressed itself in a calming, sympathetic way. "She can't be from around here, I think. Nothing that pure and beautiful was ever allowed to exist here."

Irene was crying, her hands pressed over her mouth to stifle her screams. Rosalie knew without being told that the plain young receptionist had never faced Death before.

"Lord in Heaven, hallowed be thy name..." Irene started praying in earnest as Rosalie sat with the beautiful angel whose wings had given out beneath the beautiful azaleas. It seemed a fitting resting spot for this spirit.

This particular angel wore pink lipstick, her lashes lightly brushed with mascara, and a sweep of coloured powder made her eyes shine like the sky. She smelled of honeysuckle, even though it was the wrong time of year.

Rosalie's eyes ran down the woman's body, skipping over the blood and destruction, seeing only lightly tanned legs and shoes that even the vainest of women wouldn't dream of wearing. Almost instinctively, her hand reached out to touch a small gold chain around the girl's ankle.

Irene stopped praying long enough to call out to Rosalie. "Miss Andrews, you can't touch her. If that's a crime scene, they'll think it's your fault. At least, that's how they show it on the TV."

"Lucia" Rosalie read the name carved in calligraphic letters to form the piece of jewellery. "I'm glad she had a beautiful name. She looks like the kind of girl who deserved one."

The cat meowed pitifully, and Rosalie saw it look up at Irene with some hope. The receptionist wasn't brave enough to step anywhere near Rosalie. Irene made the sign of the cross over her body as if the cat were a bad omen.

"He's not evil, Irene. He's just sad. I think the poor thing must have belonged to her." Rosalie's heart already had a tender place in it, not just for Lucia, but for the cat.

Irene's answer is a silent, sceptical look. She sniffled and bent down long enough to see the piece of paper. "Miss Andrews, there's something in his collar. It's rolled up like a little note."

When Rosalie didn't answer, Irene tried again to get her attention. "Miss Andrews? Should we look at it? It might be evidence or something. "

Rosalie still sat next to Lucia, as if someone needed to keep the abandoned corpse company. "I thought we weren't supposed to touch evidence?"

Irene bit her lip and paced. It was apparent she was torn between curiosity and leaving well enough alone. "I don't know much about the law and the police. I know that's how they do things on Law & Order and CSI. If you touch something, they find fingerprints and think you did it." 

Rosalie let out a somewhat bitter laugh. "In this town, they'll think I did it no matter what "it" is."

She crawled slowly toward the cat, who looked skittish but allowed Rosalie near him. When she attempted to take the paper, that was another matter entirely. She almost had to trade her fingers for the rolled up note.

Irene jumped at the cat's protective hiss, but Rosalie felt her eyes peering. Like most people, Irene got over sadness and fear remarkably fast in the face of something potentially interesting. "Miss Andrews, what does it say?"

Rosalie's hand trembled as she unrolled the piece of paper. A jolt moved through her body in a way she didn't expect. Mentally, she had readied herself for blood stains or cut-out magazine letters, or a puzzle of some sort.

The thing that stared back was the demon that never ceased to haunt Rosalie. It was the ultimate puzzle, one that couldn't be solved. The face of six-year-old Alexander Sedona stared at her with his mischievous little smirk.

For thirty years, Rosalie put up the missing child flyers every Halloween, with a red ribbon in memory of the tiny boy who dared to dress like a vampire and ended up taken by the night.

Saying nothing, Rosalie handed the piece of paper to Irene. "I hope she's watching over him now."

The two women stood in shocked silence, their eyes heavy with sadness as they looked down at Lucia.

For the second time in Rosalie's life, the old red schoolhouse created another angel.