Chapter 4

The series of suicides in our quiet suburban town became a national news story.

Reporters camped out on our lawn.

"The Cursed Family of Oak Creek."

That' s what they called us.

My mom, who had been a devout churchgoer and a quiet homemaker, transformed.

She called a press conference.

She stood on our front porch, facing the cameras and the microphones, with a composure that was terrifying.

I stood beside her, my hand in hers. Her skin was cold.

"I know you all have questions," she said, her voice ringing out. "You want to know what was in my son' s suicide note. You want to know why my father and my husband are dead."

She paused, letting the silence hang in the air.

"I will tell you. I will tell everyone the truth."

A murmur went through the crowd.

"But not today," she continued. "On the one-year anniversary of my son Jayden' s death, I will hold a public meeting at the community center. There, I will read the note aloud for the entire world to hear."

And with that, she turned and walked back into the house, leaving a stunned and frenzied press corps behind.

The next year was the strangest of my life.

The media frenzy died down, replaced by a quiet, simmering anticipation.

My mom seemed to find a strange kind of peace.

She took up gardening.

She would spend hours in the backyard, tending to her roses, her hands covered in dirt. She would hum old hymns, the ones she used to sing in church.

She also started keeping a journal.

It was a thick, leather-bound book. Every night, she would sit at the kitchen table and write for hours.

She never let me see it.

She kept it hidden.

I tried to be a good son. I stayed home from college. I took care of her, cooked for her, made sure she was okay.

I was terrified I was going to lose her too.

But she seemed stable, almost happy.

It was a false calm. It was the quiet before the final storm.

The day of the anniversary arrived.

The community center was packed. Every news channel was there. The whole town had turned out.

My mom was dressed in a simple white dress. She looked beautiful and serene.

She walked onto the stage, the crowd falling silent.

She called me to her side.

I walked up, my heart pounding in my chest.

She smiled at me, a sad, loving smile.

She leaned in close, her lips brushing against my ear.

And she whispered the sentence.

The sentence from Jayden' s note.

The words hit me, but they didn' t make sense. It wasn' t a curse, or a threat, or anything I could have imagined. It was just a strange, confusing statement.

As I was trying to process it, she discreetly slipped a small, cold key into the palm of my hand.

"It' s for the journal," she whispered. "I' m so sorry, Caleb. For everything."

Then, she let go of my hand.

She turned and walked to the center of the stage.

Before anyone could move, before anyone could understand what was happening, she pulled a small pistol from her purse.

She raised it to her head.

She looked out at the crowd, at the cameras, at me.

Her last act was a sad, knowing smile.

Then she pulled the trigger.