Orchestrated Murder

Leona buttoned herself against the cold. Hat pulled close over her ears and neck. Turtle pulling into its shell, she recoiled into her coat against the December chill. This December was different than others. This December felt especially frigid. Thoughts of leaving security, family, familiar…thoughts of not just new neighborhood, not just new job, but a new country, the big unknown all assaulted her as if part of the frigid December weather. Leona's thoughts frozen in December's chill refused to budge from the worry path she was on. Frozen in the chill of dread. The dread of what if? The dread of where to start. Why? Why didn't they question the absence of Alka's letters earlier? Why didn't Leona question when Alka's style, her voice in the letters changed? Lovely cursive hand writing became static printed letters. Black ink on white paper. Words devoid of personality. Words Leona couldn't feel, empty of soul and voice and warmth. It was not Alka. Why hadn't she questioned and demanded, and worried then?

Crunch of bitter cold snow reminded Leona, her quest was milk and eggs. Puffs of breath suspended midair marked her trek. Like Hansel and Gretel's bread crumb trail, they would disappear. She wouldn't need to follow them back home. Her path was clear. Or--was it? If she went to America, if she went to House On Rime Falls, if the answer was there, what would it be? Wind whipped the tails of her coat against her. The coat stung her legs like a harsh leather strap. Punishment, she wondered. Punishment for her selfish thoughts for her own comfort and safety. Punishment for putting herself first perhaps?