Chelsea woke to her head smashing against the back windshield of her parents’ car.
Her parents were murdered- shot, to be specific- yet there was no blood anywhere, no sign of struggle. There was, however, the mark of Chelsea’s forehead on the glass where it had just been brutally smacked due to a bump in the road.
Chelsea was sore, confused, and too scared to grieve.
She looked up and saw two male figures in the front seats, illuminated by the setting sun.
The driver reached forward and adjusted the radio as a sad country song began to play. Then the passenger smacked the other’s hand and accidentally bumped the dial to a station blasting rap and R & B before turning it off.
“Tuttle, you idiot!” the passenger shouted, “You’ll wake poor girl.”
Walden quickly took his eyes off the road and saw I was awake.
“Too late,” he dismissed.
“Where are we going?” Chelsea demanded.
“We?” Tuttle chuckled.
”’We’ are dropping ‘you’ at your aunt’s house,” Walden explained,” and then ‘we’ are going out for coffee.”