The Death of Avalon Corbyn

      3 A.M.

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      It had been 3 A.M. when I said my final farewell to the land of the living.

      I’d been dancing on the edge of death for far too long, so I had decided to…give myself a little push, per se.

      I glanced at the ponytail I’d tied my newly dyed blonde hair into earlier—its length barely brushing my shoulders instead of swinging below my waist like it used to. I’d painted myself with heavy makeup and covered my crystal blue eyes with brown contacts that mirrored an overhead view of a cup of black coffee.

      I did not look like myself.

      I’d managed to change the shape of my figure with the stiff, black trousers, tucking a large ebony tunic that all but swallowed me whole into their waistband. Though I was dressed for serving, I had to hide any sense of the curves or contours of what I truly looked like beneath the stiff fabric, lest I be recognized by my stance or figure. These clothes made for a man did that. And I knew the Corbyns hardly paid attention to what their staff were wearing or whether it was deemed “appropriate for society” or not.

      I tore my gaze from the fountain where I’d been checking my reflection for far too long and walked back in the victorian-esque mansion currently filled with supposed mourners—though many of them probably came to keep up the appearance of being a loving and perfect family.

      I took a second, studying the neat, white tables.

      How light, considering the occasion.

      One would think a family would put up more dreary decorations when their eldest daughter is murdered.

      It seemed they were having a party rather than a wake.

      I stepped into the shelter of the doorway of the kitchen, making eye contact with a tall man giving orders to servers. He wore similar garb to mine—though his black tunic fit ten times better—and his dark features were pulled taut. He nodded at me and I returned it, making the same barely noticeable movement he had.

      We were all set.

      I listened as Keith Corbyn began speaking, his words telling tales of the love he and his family had felt for his daughter—of how they would miss her.

      Filthy lies.

      He finally finished his fictitious recounting of Avalon Corbyn’s life—of how loved and cherished she’d been.

      Then Lauriana Corbyn arose, taking his place. She put on a more dramatic show, blotting tears here and there, saying how happy Avalon would’ve been to know everyone was there and how she would want everyone to be happy as well.

      Utter rubbish.

      If she’d taken the time to get to know her daughter, she’d have been privy to the knowledge that none of her many relatives cared about her and that, in turn, she’d never cared for them.

      I was torn from watching Avalon’s fiancé—well, not anymore—Anderson, speak when a hand grasped my wrist, the skin contacting my own and sending an odd tingle throughout my limb.

      I jolted as widened golden brown eyes met mine.

      Eyes I’d not seen in years.

      Eyes that’d last been filled with burning anger when their owner had denounced me from his life forever.

      “It really is you.” The young man stepped back, his blonde hair as rebelliously tousled as I remembered. Just as I remembered how it felt against my fingers.

      Victor Morris.

      The man of my dreams—and nightmares.

      The first thing I’d lost thanks to my incredibly thoughtful stalker.

      I ignored my shock at him recognizing me even with my contacts, heavy makeup, and change of hair, and stared at him, anger boiling within me as I recalled our last meeting. “Victor Morris.”

      “Avalon Corbyn.”

      My eyes flew around, making sure no one had heard him address me, before they landed on him again. “If I’m ‘dead to you,’ why are you at my wake?”

      I could see him cringe slightly at my harsh words—the harsh words he’d once spoken to me. “I think the real question is, if you’re ‘dead’, why are you at your wake?”

      It was clear by his facial expression, and his inflection of the word “dead”, that he’d known the entire thing had been staged before he’d even spotted me.

      I tensed, looking around again, searching for any eyes glued to us.

      When I saw none, I snatched Victor’s wrist, yanking him into the pantry. I spun on him, hoping I wouldn’t waste too much time dealing with the man.

      He wasn’t worth my time. He’d given up on me, fallen for the lies the monster who hunted me had fed him.

      “What are you doing here?”

      Victor raised a brow but I could see he was only putting up a false air of nonchalance. I’d been around fake people long enough to know when someone was putting up an act. “Did you think I wouldn’t come to the wake of my former love?”

      “I thought I was dead to you.”

      “And I thought you were dead, as in deceased—not breathing.”

      “You’re completely transparent so you might as well cut the act. I know you knew full well I was alive.” I saw it in his eyes when he’d seen me. There had been no shock there. No disbelief.

      “Well, I didn’t exactly know for a fact, but you’ve certainly confirmed it now.”

      I narrowed my eyes. “Would you mind explaining the way as to which you came to this conclusion, ‘Sherlock’?” If he could figure it out, a man who I thought had despised my very presence, could he know? Know that I was alive?

      “Deduction.”

      “Deduction? You expect me to believe you simply deduced that I was alive and had staged my own murder?”

      “Yes, that sounds right.”

      I shook my head in disbelief.

      “I’m sorry.”

      I blinked. “Excuse me?”

      Victor’s eyes had darkened, his gaze now fixed on the floor. “I’m sorry I cast you from my life so carelessly. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

      My body felt as rigid as ice, the memories of our parting bringing a sudden stab of pain to my heart.

      That’d been the first appearance of my stalker, the first appearance of the monster who sought me dead. He’d hurt Victor, and set me up to take the fall.

      And I had.

      I had fallen hard.

      I shook my head. I was a different person now. I had put Victor behind me. I had to stay on track. “It doesn’t matter now.”

      “On the contrary, it does.” He moved a step closer and his eyes hardened. “I know what really happened. That night…”

      I inhaled sharply and tamped my emotions down, trying to quell the ache I felt—forcing myself to be professional. “And this relates to the reason you are at my wake in what way?”

      “I knew you had staged your murder the second I heard the news of the ‘mugging’. That or he had finally succeeded in killing you, though I hoped that wasn’t the case. I also know why you are sneaking around your own wake. You seek information. Information about the one who was threatening you before your beautifully staged demise.”

      I blew out a breath, his close proximity suddenly feeling suffocating. “If you knew what I was doing, you’re even more idiotic than I thought seeking me out like this with no better reason than to confirm what you already knew—putting my cover in danger in the process.”    

      “But I have a better reason.” He took another step forward, affectively pinning me in my position up against the cabinet behind me and making it even harder for me to draw breath, my pulse speeding unwarrantedly. His hand wrapped around my own, lifting it from my side, and a book was pressed into my palm. “This. This is the reason.”

      I looked at the leather bound journal, the pages well worn, some dog-eared. Then I saw the name on the front.

      It was the name of the person who’d sought my blood.

      Without hesitation, I flipped it open, shocked at the words scrawled across each page.

      I scanned through the book, not taking much time to focus, but catching some things written about me—drawings of me, twisted and almost sadistic. I bit back a gasp as another woman appeared in a sketch.

      He’d drawn her.

      Before he’d committed his vicious act, he’d sketched her.

      My eyes met Victor’s, shock coursing through me at being handed such a precious piece of evidence. “Where….”

      “This is how I found out the truth.” He held my gaze, his caramel eyes intense. “I hoped that with this, you could prove his guilt. I’ve read through it. It details each one of his plans, his intentions, even how he managed to frame you for the destruction of the letters.”

      The letters.

      They had been the letters Victor’s mother had written him before she’d died. He’d opened up to me about them on that fateful day, and then the monster, my stalker, had burned them, framing me for it.

    That was when Victor had tossed me away—though I could hardly blame him—and told me to never show my face to him again, told me I was, from now on, dead to him.

      “How did you get this?”

      “I found it whilst sneaking...stopping by for a visit one evening. He’d come by my mansion prior to me finding it, hoping to ‘eradicate any hard feelings between us’. Apparently, since your and my families are so close, and everyone had been aware of our history, he’d felt it best to make sure I wasn’t terribly ‘sore’ that he’d won over my former belle mere months after we’d cut ties.”

      I flinched.

      Won over.

      More like blackmailed into an engagement by threatening who I loved most.

      My shallow, unloving family hadn’t even noticed my hidden reluctance, only being delighted at the prospect of me being engaged.

      They’d never cared for my happiness, even though I wished they had.

      “I told him I was the one that’d ended our relationship and that I despised you with every bit of my innermost being. Of course, I now know the union with you and him clearly was not as honest and mutual as he made it look. But even then, I noticed something odd about him. It was then I stopped by your family’s home, hoping to question you. That was when I found the journal simply lying around.”

      I shuddered. That had been the week he’d gotten angry with me. I hadn’t known why, only thinking it was because he was already obsessed with my murder—just waiting for the opportunity to commit it and annoyed that it hadn’t yet presented itself. Now I know he’d lost his journal. The place where all his dirty secrets were penned in permanent glory.

      “I read it and realized what’d happened. Then I got the news…” He cleared his throat and I thought I saw a hint of moisture in his eyes. But then it was gone.

      Must’ve been a trick of the light.

      “The news that you’d been killed. An unfortunate mugging gone wrong incident. I’d only believed it for a second. I knew you’d either staged your death….or Anderson had finally succeeded in finding the opportunity to kill you.” He stepped back abruptly, almost as if he’d just realized how near to me he’d been standing.

      The vice gripping my lungs suddenly let up and I could breath normally. “You are certainly a genius.” Sarcasm slathered my words because, for some unknown reason, I was annoyed.

      He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know.”

      I flipped the book over in my hand. “I need to get this to the police.”

      “So they’re the ones who helped you stage your death. You’re working with them now.”

      I nodded, pushing past him and towards the door. “If you’ll excuse me.”

      “Ava.”

      I froze at the affectionate nickname I hadn’t heard in so long. Turning, I met his warm, brown eyes. I was shocked at what had just transpired, but I felt completely aghast, hearing what he used to call me fall from his lips so effortlessly, my whole body seeming to burst into one burning tendril of fire.

      “Please be safe.”

      I felt something shift within me at the emotion in his tone.

      It’d been a year since I’d fallen in love with Victor, and yet I still felt the emotion, even after he’d been ripped from me. But I had to stay focused. I had to complete my mission, bring the past victim of my stalker justice. I needed to forget about all of the summer nights we’d spent sneaking out to the lake together.

      Taking a deep breath, I nodded again. “I’ll try my best.”

      With that, I slipped out of the pantry, leaving my former beau behind, a journal filled with my worst nightmares and yet my greatest wish in my grasp.

      I walked straight over to the man who had nodded at me earlier, his eyes snapping to mine.

      “We need more napkins.”

      His face hardened at my use of the code words, but he nodded calmly, speaking in an even tone. “Let me show you where I put them.”

      We walked towards the pantry, stopping by the cupboard outside of it.

      He turned to me, demeanor immediately shifting. “What is it?”

      “I have it. Evidence.”

      His gaze flicked to the journal as I held it out to him.

      “Read it.”

      He took it from me, carefully opening it, his eyes scanning the pages.

      Victor’s blonde head of hair caught my eye and I watched him exit the kitchen, his nonchalant behavior back in place, preparing to meld back with the happenings in the other room.

      Thank you.

      I’d longed to say those words to him, but had never gotten them out of my mouth.

      But I would tell him eventually.

      Because this was thanks to him.

      Thanks to him, I finally had it.

      The evidence to convict my best friend’s killer.

      The killer who’d become my fiancé because he knew I had seen him take her out that night she never returned. Because he knew I recognized that it was him who’d killed her.

      And because he’d intended to do the same to me.

      I looked up at Officer Trenton who’s eyes were gradually widening as he flipped through the journal. “I think it’s time for Avalon Corbyn to rise from the dead.”

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