Russian Roulette

After sealing the final box, Helena stretched, relieving some of the dull pain in her lower back. She wiped the sweat off her forehead and surveyed her old bedroom. It was nothing more than an ocean of pale brown boxes and suitcases. Double-checking her things one last time, she closed her eyes. The sound of her beating heart enveloped her, and happy memories merged with the familiar smell of rose-scented candles on her windowsill. From downstairs, the muffled voices of her mother and Richard floated up.

This is where she grew up—a home she would miss. Her fingers itched with anticipation, and a smile tugged at her lips. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she reached under the pillow, retrieving a journal. She rested the two-inch-thick bulk on her lap. It had been on her mind since she rummaged through the dusty attic last night. Once she had laid eyes on the leather cover with carved fern leaves, she wanted to know the secrets.

Yet, priorities such as packing were paramount. If not done in time, she would be forced to listen to Laura’s complaints until her ears bled. She peeled back the jacket, revealing the first aged, yellow page. A list of names presented itself to her. They appeared handwritten by different people, possibly multiple owners of the journal. One name caught her attention.