Haunt Me

There was another pressed daffodil in the second envelope. Peyton had read the letter aloud to Darien and Angela. She couldn't help but choke on a laugh when he implied feeling creepy. Then she passed it around so that each of them could read it, again. They all just watched one another and sucked down cup after cup of coffee until they had to brew another pot.

"You have to call the police." Angela was rereading the first letter for the third time, twirling the pressed flower between her thumb and index finger. "You do know that, right?"

Peyton was fiddling with the dry petals of the other flower, not paying much attention. "What?" She'd been trying to remember what this guy looked like. He had been to her house. She remembered him delivering the flowers with her mother. They were lilies. But his face escaped her. "Oh... yeah, I know."

Darien put his hand on her shoulder. "Peyton, you are going to tell the police aren't you?" His eyes were narrowed, seeing the hesitation in her mind. She just took another sip of coffee, trying to avoid the question, but that upset him. "Peyton, you're kidding me!" He threw his hands in the air and shot up from the table. He paced between the table and counter, his fingers rubbing at his temples. "This guy killed our mother! I don't think you understand the weight of this situation!"

Peyton got up from her chai, walked over to Darien, and slapped him. He grabbed his cheek, eyes wide. "Did you walk in on her? Did you have to talk to the police, and watch the ambulance take her away, and have her killer write you a letter apologizing for what happened?" He didn't say a thing, just glared at her. "Don't tell me I don't understand."

The three agreed, with much stubbornness from Darien, that if the police were going to find out, it would be because of Peyton. Angela went back to her parents house around ten o'clock. Once she left Darien went to his room and didn't come out until morning. Peyton sat in bed, staring at the blank ceiling for hours with the soundtrack of Wicked playing on low volume (another gift from her mother).

All day, both the letters were the only things she could read. Crawling out from under the covers, Peyton stood in front of the book shelf, a fist on her hip, and chewed on the nail of her index finger.

Everything reminded Peyton of her mother. The leather bound books, the Broadway musical CDs, her brother, even this house. Her mother had helped decorate it, put the down payment on it, threw the "moving in" party for her. Her mother had done so much for her, and now she was gone. Simply gone.

I'm flying high
Defying gravity!

Finally Peyton decided to grab a notebook and settled back under her covers. She grabbed a pen off of her nightstand, clicked it, and taped it against the paper in thought. After a few hours of writing, crying, and scratching out her words, Peyton finished her letter and drifted off to sleep. Like the last two nights, she didn't dream. She didn't cry in her sleep, call out, toss, or turn. She lay very still with her eyes closed. If it weren't for the slight rise and fall of her chest, she may very well have looked dead. Like her mother.