Christina Henry

Good Girls Don’t Die

Ryn Johnstone

The little girl's bedroom had posters of Korean pop stars and a pile of soccer gear in the corner.

The kind of guy who lifts weights and drinks protein shakes as his personal identity, Celia thought. He probably hasn't eaten a carbohydrate since he graduated from high school.

Something flitted across the front of her brain, a memory moving with the speed of a darting rabbit.

A sharp pain followed in the wake of this, a pain that shot like electricity behind her eyes and made her bend over, gasping.

That's what this feels like, Celia thought. A story. Like one of the many cozy mysteries I've read over the years.

A moment later there was a rush of cool air, followed by snatches of murmured conversation.

The feeling that something wasn't right with the photos was like an eyelash in her eye, gritty irritation that made her blink and blink and blink.

Cool, just shatter the fourth wall into oblivion. We didn't need it anyway!!

Her brain trailed off. She was in what, exactly? She wasn't a fictional character on the page of a bestseller.

I'll find them all, she thought. Whoever is doing this, if it's Pete or someone else, I'll find out. I'm smart and I'm capable and I'm not going to let some asshole run me over.

She minded when this happened but didn't show it, because bleeding was something best done internally, preferably in private.

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