You find an old diary you wrote when you were 13. Most of it is the usual teenage stuff, but then you discover something completely unexpected.
My nose tickled with the dust from the old boxes my mum had asked me to look through and sort for myself. They contained mostly things from my childhood, school books, awards, toys, diaries and such. I had been a rather prolific diary writer in my younger years, particularly my tween years. In fact I had stopped just before my 14th birthday. I frowned picking through to find my diary from when I was 13.
Flicking through the lined pages filled with the untidy juvenile handwritten script, I felt memories flood back to me of those years. Until I came across an entry that stood out.
I think I’m being followed. I think I’m in danger. I think I found out something I shouldn’t have. I am writing this, so even if they make me forget, I will not.
Mel was murdered, and I saw the whole thing.