Episode One

Florida

Sleuthing 101: walk on the balls of your feet. Bare feet are the best for silence and speed.

*Wᴇᴅɴᴇs*ᴅᴀʏ** (ᴍᴇʀᴄʀᴇᴅɪ) ᴊᴀɴᴜᴀʀʏ 15ᴛʜ

None of this would have happened if Mom had just made macaroni and cheese for dinner. After all, it’s got grain and cheese in it. That’s two of the five good groups! But no, Mom went on this health kick ever since Dad’s doctor told him he had to whatch his blood pressure.

“It’s time this family got healthy,” Mom announced, taking the saltshaker from Dad’s hand. “No more eating fast food and frozen dinners.”

And that’s how it began. The crazy grocery lists, the printed recipes scattered about the kitchen. And her cooking—or should I say burning?—exotic dinners. After last night’s near fire fiasco, Mom decided, to our relief, to order our dinners from Healthy Meals Delivered.

“It’s the perfect solution,” Mom said. Dad and I agreed. But tonight as I stare at the dinner menu, I’m thinking of charcoaled chicken might not be so horrific.

“This looks great!” Dad kisses Mom on the cheek before filling in the time he arrived home from work on the Lists and Charts Wall. Last year, Mom bought a wall-size whiteboard that she dedicated to keep track of everything we do. When I asked her why, she said it relaxed her.

It’s annoying how Dad always goes along with Mom’s crazy schemes. Like the charts and graphs and endless nonsense list and rules. And especially the No Writing stories rule because appearently, stories are a waste of time. Or the craziest one, No Pens in the House rule. Who on this planet has rules like those?

No one. (Oh, wait, except for my family.)

The doorbell rings. Healthy Meals Delivered delivering right on time. I march to the fron door, not caring that I’m tromping through the house in my soccer cleats, and fling it open.

A large man wearing all black and holding two square boxes fills the doorway. A green baseball cap covers most of his brown curly hair, and the bill is pulled down so low I’ve no idea how he can even see.

“Good evening,” he says in a gravelly voice. “I have a meal for the Harding family from Healthy Meals Delivered.”

“Thanks.” I take the boxes.

I push to shut the door, but his boot blocks the path. The man peers past me, assessing the house. I frown, now able to see the man’s face clearly. A jagged scar runs from the corner of his eye across to his ear. A trail of chills courses down my back. There’s something off about this guy.

“Your foot is in the way,” I point out.

“Ah, so it is.” He chuckles and then pulls free from the doorframe. “Enjoy your food. And sweet dreams.”

Sweet dreams? What a weirdo. I secure the lock and head to kitchen.

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