It's here.

Judgement day.

Being asked "Are you still watching?' by Netflix is modern day doomsday. If you answer no, you're destined to move onto better things. Answer yes and you've sentenced yourself to another three hours of binge watching Killer King–the hot, new murder documentary everyone is talking about. And by everyone, I mean myself and the better half of Twitter. Some call it an obsession. Me? I prefer the term hobby. So, I enjoy murder? It's not in a 'I'm a psychopath' kind of way. It's more of an appreciation. A warped (totally healthy)  appreciation.

Of course, my Mom doesn't see it that way. She'd rather I be more like Shaun–my brother. It's not enough that I'm best friends with him and his girlfriend. She wants me to spread my wings. Become a social butterfly. Even though Jasmine was my friend long before his girlfriend.

Besides, it's research. As a future defence lawyer, it's only right that I immerse myself in a world that will soon become my norm. Criminal offences. Killer motives. Court cases. These are all things that excite me. And whilst I didn't go as far as to write it on my application to Penn University, it definitely counts towards extra credit.

So–yes–in answer to Netflix's question, I am still watching. And dammit, I do not appreciate being judged. I bet Matt Murdock never received this amount of scrutiny? Elle Woods, too.

"Helena?" questions Mom, poking her head around my bedroom door.

Her raven hair hangs in long, wet ringlets, much like my own does after washing it. I don't say it a lot because personality wise, Mom and I are chalk and cheese, however, we do look a lot alike. Same blue eyes. Pale skin. Long legs. The only physical difference is our nose. I happened to inherit that from my father–whom I see twice a year in the Bahamas. Or at least that's what I'm told. Personally, I don't see it.

"Shower's free."

"Wait? You mean to say the unwashed look isn't working for me?" I ask, already leaving the safety of my bed to grab a towel.

I know how to take a hint.

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, honey."

"Yeah, yeah," I reply, kissing her cheek as I breeze past. "You finished for the day?"

"Nope. Last class is in twenty minutes."

Mom teaches yoga from her study-turned-studio four days a week. It's her latest gig, although I must say, it suits her. Shaun set it all up for her–being the most patient among us–and off she went, in pursuit of her latest career change. It usually lasts six months before she sets out on a new challenge but next week marks eight and I'm holding out hope. Not that it really matters.

On paper, Mom is filthy rich and doesn't actually need to work. As the only living daughter of Fredrick Gallagher, she inherited the lot when he passed away ten years ago. Thousands, if not millions sits collecting dust in her bank account, just waiting for Shaun and I to jet off to college.

But she is fickle. A busy-body. And she constantly needs to be doing something.

"Wanna join in?" she asks, seeming hopeful.

"Sure. My unwashed hair won't deter business, will it?"

"Such a smart ass," she retorts.

"I get it from my momma!"

I'm rewarded with her wicked smile and devilish wink. "Go persuade your brother to join in too. He could do with a break. He's been studying all day."

Shaun isn't actually hers. He is a result of one of Dad's many affairs back in the day and was dumped on our doorstep one afternoon. Mom–having no option–took Shaun (then six months) in and loved him as her own. A year later, Dad bailed, leaving her with nothing to do but to singlehandedly raise two young children.

There's only two months between us, which is a testament to the kind of person Dad is. Careless. Irresponsible. Adulterous. Unfortunately, time hasn't changed him.

"Studying isn't a bad thing," I explain, making my way down the hall. "Just, FYI."

I don't bother knocking before I enter Shaun's bedroom, finding him slumped over his desk. Navy blue paints his walls, not a single poster covering them. He's an organiser. A neat freak. And as much as I hate to admit it, the sensible one in our trio.

"Mom wants us to do yoga."

"Yoga?"

"Yeah."

He groans. "Seriously?"

"Uh-huh."

He releases a long sigh and closes his textbook, knowing better than to deny our mother. Mouse brown curls sit tousled atop his head, neat and precise; everything mine isn't. Earthly brown eyes meet mine in a desperate plea of, 'how the hell do we get out of this?' only we both know there's no escaping. Once Mom sets her mind to something, there's no stopping her.

"I guess we're doing yoga then."

I follow him downstairs and enter Mom's studio, overwhelmed by the amount of women present, all clad out in nylon. It's like an episode of Fame with all the leg warmers and sweat bands.

Seriously?

It's yoga. Not boot camp!

"Alright, ladies," prompts Mom, getting her flock into formation. "Let's get warmed up."

She goes to turn her music on and catches Shaun and I lingering in the doorway.

"My babies!"

Oh, jeez!

"Grab a mat and find a space."

Shaun leads the way and awkwardly finds a space next to Mrs Jones–our guidance councillor at school. She's a lovely lady. Kind. Shit at yoga.

He looks up and gestures for me to join him, which I do so with great difficulty. There's hardly any room and every so often, I bang my arm on the wall.

"Inhale," instructs Mom, positioning her hands in front of her chest in a pray-like motion. "And exhale. Allow your mind to empty of your daily stresses."

"Yoga is my daily stress," whispers Shaun, making me smile.

"You think you've got it bad? I was one episode away from finding out who the killer was!"

"Oh, please! You already know who did it," he argues, moving into downward dog.

I join him in pushing my ass in the air and twist my head to one side. "My bets are on the uncle."

"It's always a family member."

"Not always," I insist, transitioning into child's pose. "That's actually a misconception."

Shaun smiles.

"Do you sometimes wish we lived somewhere different?" I ask.

"Why?"

"Because nothing interesting ever happens here," I moan, stretching out my back muscles.

And that's the God's honest truth. Oak Valley, Michigan is the dullest place to have to live. There's only one high school, one post office, one coffee bar and one shopping complex. Although, calling it a shopping complex is a stretch if you ask me. The people here ain't so bad but they're quiet. Reserved. When they want to be.

Sometimes, I feel like a jack in the box, ready to explode. And I'm not saying I want the crime rate to go up but just once, I want my perfect, little town to mess up. To do something scandalous. But that'll never happen.

Nothing exciting ever does.

****

****

Jasmine approaches my locker in a blur of pinks and purples, every hay fever sufferers worst nightmare. She carries her tulips with pride and in doing so, leaves a trail of sneeze-induced students in her wake.

"Wow. My brother went all out, huh?"

"Cute, right?"

"Sickening, actually."

I'm rewarded with a poke to my rib cage and a flick to my shoulder. "Don't be a grump. I've got a surprise for you."

I watch her rummage around in her backpack, her blonde curls spilling over each shoulder. Todays outfit consists of snow boots, thermal leggings and a cashmere sweater. Pink, of course. A few grunts and exhales leave her sunset-orange lips, this week's choice in colour no doubt.

"Here!"

She pulls out a tube of lipstick, flashing me the label; Roses Are Red.

"Seriously?"

She knows how much I love this shade.

"Yeah, I'm into spring colours now. I only used it for a week so there should be loads left."

I open it up and apply it immediately. "Wh'dya think?"

"Beautiful."

Shaun chooses now to appear, holding a stuffed bear and an obnoxiously oversized box of chocolates. "Happy Valentine's Day, babe!"

I leave them to it–not wanting to intrude on their moment–and check my reflection in a nearby window. That's the good thing about Michigan winters. The snowy background makes it easier to check that my new red lips suit the black sweater dress I chose to wear, alongside my knee-high boots and thermal tights. I often wear black, so it's important to add colour where possible.

And I don't normally bother with makeup but I do enjoy a bold lip colour from time to time. It says a lot about a person. Are they confident? Flirtatious? Perhaps they're happy? Or maybe they wear it to pretend they're someone they're not? A disguise.

When I wear lipstick, I'm no longer eighteen-year-old senior student, Helena Gallagher. I'm soon-to-be defence lawyer, Helena Gallagher. Ready for new challenges. New adventures.

"Lena?"

"Huh?"

"You were thinking about Killer King again, weren't you ?" mocks Shaun, nudging my hip.

"Oh my god! I can't believe it was the uncle!" yells Jasmine. "I never saw it coming!"

"It was so obvious!" I protest, grabbing the books I need for class.

"For you, maybe. We can't all be clever clogs."

I close my locker and laugh, amused by her retort. Jasmine is British and although she's lived over here for best part of eight years, her accent still holds strong. And phrases like 'clever clogs' never gets old.

"He had the most to gain from killing his family. The inheritance...The life insurance."

"But he seemed genuinely upset when he heard about them being murdered," she insists, struggling with her sudden increase in cargo.

"You're too emotionally sympathetic," I reply.

"It's always a family member anyway," inputs Shaun, relieving his girlfriend of her flowers.

We stop by her locker to deposit her gifts.

"Not always," I remind him. "That's a..."

"Misconception? I remember."

I smirk. "You're learning, Shaun."

"Just as well," he says. "I've heard I'll need such skills to become an accountant."

I stick out my tongue and head to class, hollering a heartfelt, "Bye!" over my shoulder as I do so. Chemistry is located in the East building and I don't particularly pride myself on running, therefore need to give myself plenty of time. Luckily for me, I arrive with five minutes to spare and take my usual seat by the window. Often–when Mr Owen goes off on a tangent–I take to staring out of it and daydream about less mundane things.

Life in Pennsylvania. Killer King. Oreos and milk.

Ya know?

"Hey!"

Marie–my lab partner–takes a seat next to mine.

"Hi."

"Happy singles day to us," she jokes, readjusting her glasses.

I let slip a small laugh. "I'll have you know I'm swimming with offers. I'll need a removal van to get all my cards home."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"You finish Killer King?" she asks.

I nod. "You?"

"I binge-watched the entire thing in one night. I knew it was the uncle from the start. That shady fucker had 'MOTIVE' written across his forehead."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Right?"

We continue discussing it, both of us ranting about how useless the police department were in the entire investigation.

"Less helpful than a boat with holes," she rages.

"As useful as a white crayon," I add.

Needless to say, we're not impressed. Had we been on the case, things would've been resolved within days, not years.

Bunch of amateurs!

A chorus of bleeps and chimes echo around us in an unexpected wave. Surrounding students begin pulling out their cellphones, beaten by their curiosity. I follow suit and type in my password; 0714–Mom's birthday. A red notification pops up on my messages, alerting me of two unread texts. I open the app and am immediately met with what I assume is someone's sick attempt at a Valentine's inspired joke.

Unknown:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Do you value your life?
If so, pick true.

Unknown:
Sienna Michaels,
Truth or death?

I stare at the screen a moment longer, shaking with the strength in which I'm holding my cell. Sienna is in my geometry class and–as far as I'm aware–dates Lewis Chatman. She seems nice enough, although I don't really know her. Energetic. Captain of the cheer squad.

"Who sent this?" asks Chad–one of Sienna's friends.

He's of muscular build, though I suppose that comes with months of training. He's on the swim team with Shaun and aside from that, does just about every other sport this school has to offer.

"Well?"

There's a few hushed murmurs as people begin to quietly speculate amongst themselves.

"This is weird, huh?" asks Marie, eyes still glued to her screen.

"Very," I agree.

"I wonder why truth or death?" she questions, finally meeting my gaze. "Why not truth or dare?"

I shrug, ignoring the increase in my heart rate. "Who knows? Maybe we're about to find out."

****

Thank you for clicking on this book. This is my first attempt at a YA thriller and I sure do hope you find it thrilling throughout!

Happy reading...
xo