The brick crashed through my bookstore window at exactly 5:47 p.m.
I jumped so hard I dropped the stack of books I was carrying. Glass exploded everywhere, glittering on the wooden floor like angry stars. Cold December air rushed in, making the Christmas cards on the counter flutter like trapped birds.
My heart hammered in my chest. Someone just threw a brick through my window. On purpose.
I ran to the broken window, careful not to step on the glass. Outside, snow fell in thick white sheets. The street was empty. Whoever did this was already gone.
That's when I saw it—a piece of paper wrapped around the brick with a rubber band.
My hands shook as I picked it up. The brick was heavier than I expected. I pulled off the rubber band and unfolded the paper. The message was written in red ink that looked too much like blood:
STOP ASKING QUESTIONS OR YOU'LL END UP LIKE YOUR MOTHER.
The paper slipped from my fingers.
My mother. They mentioned my mother.
Mom died three years ago, right before Christmas. The police said it was a car accident. Black ice on the road. She lost control. That's what they told me. That's what I believed.
Until two weeks ago.
Two weeks ago, I found Mom's old journal hidden in a box of her things. Inside were pages and pages of notes about something called "The Diamond Hearts"—some kind of secret group in our small town. Mom had written that she was getting close to the truth. That she was going to expose them.
The last entry in her journal was dated December 23rd—the day before she died.
Since then, I'd been asking questions. Careful questions. I talked to Mom's old friends. I visited the library to look at old newspapers. I even drove out to where her accident happened, looking for... I don't know what. Answers, maybe.
Now someone knew. Someone was watching me.
I grabbed my phone to call the police, but then I stopped. What would I tell them? That I got a threatening note? They'd ask why someone would threaten me. I'd have to explain about the journal, about my questions. They'd think I was crazy. They'd think I was just a sad daughter who couldn't accept that her mom died in an accident.
Maybe I was crazy.
I looked at the message again. The handwriting was neat and careful. Not angry or messy like you'd expect from someone throwing bricks through windows.
A gust of wind blew through the broken window, scattering the papers on my counter. I needed to board this up before I froze to death. I lived in the apartment right above the bookstore, and all that cold air would rise up through the ceiling.
I grabbed some old cardboard boxes from the back room and started taping them over the hole. It wasn't pretty, but it would work until morning when I could call someone to fix it properly.
As I worked, I couldn't stop thinking about Mom. About the journal. About the Diamond Hearts.
What if Mom's death wasn't an accident? What if someone killed her because she knew too much?
What if I was next?
"No," I said out loud to the empty store. "No, I'm not going to be scared. I'm not going to stop."
Mom deserved the truth. Even if it was dangerous. Even if someone was threatening me.
I finished taping up the window and swept up the glass. The whole time, I felt like someone was watching me from outside. Every shadow looked like a person. Every sound made me jump.
When I finally locked up and climbed the stairs to my apartment, I double-checked all my locks. Then I checked them again.
I heated up some soup but couldn't eat it. I tried to read but couldn't focus. Finally, I pulled out Mom's journal again.
I'd read it so many times that I practically had it memorized. But maybe I missed something. Maybe there was a clue I didn't see before.
I flipped through the pages, reading Mom's neat handwriting. She'd been investigating the Diamond Hearts for almost a year before she died. She thought they were involved in something illegal. Maybe money laundering. Maybe worse.
She'd written down names—people she thought were members. Mayor Richards. Police Chief Patterson. Mrs. Chen who owned the Chinese restaurant. Mr. Kowalski from the bank.
Important people. Powerful people.
People who could make a car accident happen.
My phone buzzed, making me jump. It was a text from an unknown number:
Meet me at the old Miller factory tomorrow at noon. Come alone. I have information about your mother.
My stomach twisted into knots. This could be a trap. The same person who threw the brick could be luring me to a dangerous place.
But what if it wasn't? What if someone really did have information about Mom?
I stared at my phone for a long time. Snow kept falling outside my window. Somewhere in town, Christmas lights twinkled and families were happy. But I felt like I was standing on the edge of something dark and dangerous.
I typed back: *Who is this?*
The response came immediately: *Someone who knew your mother. Someone who knows what really happened to her. Tomorrow at noon. Come alone or I won't show.*
My hands were shaking again. I wanted to be brave like Mom. She'd asked questions even when it was dangerous. She'd searched for the truth even when people wanted her to stop.
But she'd died.
Maybe the brick thrower was right. Maybe I should stop asking questions. Maybe I should just accept that Mom died in an accident and move on with my life.
I looked at her journal again. At her handwriting. At all the work she'd done.
"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered. "But I can't stop. I need to know what happened to you."
I texted back: I'll be there.
As soon as I hit send, every light in my apartment went out.
The whole building went dark. I sat frozen in my chair, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
Then I heard it—footsteps on the stairs leading up to my apartment.
Slow, careful footsteps.
Someone was coming.