Chapter 1: A Beautiful Morning
Auburn, Washington — April 1986
The morning arrived with deceptive calm.
Soft golden light spilled through the pines lining Maplewood Avenue, painting long shadows across driveways and lawns. A sprinkler hissed to life in one of the front yards, spinning lazily as droplets caught the sun like crystal. A paperboy coasted down the quiet street, expertly tossing rolled newspapers onto porches, the rubber bands thudding lightly against wood.
Inside the Grace household, the hum of routine pulsed quietly.
Jones William stood in the foyer, dressed neatly in his delivery uniform, adjusting his collar with the calm precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. The scent of fresh coffee still lingered faintly in the air.
Behind him, Amelia Grace — forty, poised even in her robe — stepped out from the hallway, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Alright, I'm off. See you tonight, honey," Jones said, his voice warm, habitual.
"Bye!" she replied with a soft smile, distracted but affectionate.
The door clicked shut behind him. Outside, Jones walked to his car, keys jingling in his palm, unaware that it would be the last morning he saw his wife alive.
Back inside, Amelia moved into the kitchen, which gleamed in the morning light. Every surface was spotless, the layout as clean and elegant as the woman who moved within it. She paused in front of a small wall mirror, adjusting her robe, then reached for the medicine cabinet.
A row of neatly arranged bottles greeted her — cold remedies, vitamins, and her usual: Nexalin Extra Strength, the capsules she took for her headaches.
She poured two into her hand without hesitation, swallowed them with water from the sink, then turned away, unaware of the quiet death she had just ingested.
Upstairs, her daughter, Aria, fifteen and full of restless youth, stood beneath the warm spray of the shower. Steam curled around her like mist, clouding the mirror and hiding the world.
Then it came —
THUD.
A heavy sound, dull and sudden, echoed faintly through the hallway. Aria paused, her hand frozen mid-rinse. Her heartbeat seemed to skip.
“What was that?” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
She listened, straining past the hiss of the water.
Silence.
Shaking her head, she went back to the comfort of the shower, never suspecting what had already begun.
Moments later, wrapped in a towel and rubbing her damp hair, Aria stepped into her room. Her eyes flicked toward the hallway. The house was too quiet.
“Mom?” she called. “Did you leave already?”
No answer.
She checked her phone. 6:42 a.m. Her mother always left by 6:30. Always.
Something wasn’t right.
Stepping into the hallway, Aria followed the distant sound of running water. It led her to the second bathroom, the door slightly ajar.
She pushed it open.
The faucet was still on, water spilling over the sink onto the tiled floor. Amelia lay sprawled beside it — her skin pale, eyes shut, lips tinged with blue. One arm twitched faintly. The other lay limp.
“Mom?!”
Aria dropped to her knees, shaking her mother’s shoulders with trembling hands.
“Mom—wake up! Please!”
No response.
Her hands fumbled for her phone, fingers numb with panic.
“9-1-1,” she gasped into the phone. “Please—I think my mom’s unconscious! She’s not waking up!”
As she sobbed into the receiver, the cold, sterile morning turned violent — the peace shattered by the scream of sirens racing toward the Grace household.
And with it, a nightmare began that would spread far beyond the walls of that home.
