It was almost funny. Life seemed downright accidental in its brevity, and death a punch line to a lousy joke.

I could envision it all to clearly: Stuart or Debbie finding the dented door off its hinges, lying in the snow. "She came in, ravaged the boy, stole plastic bags, and ripped off the door in her escape," the police would say in the APB. "Probably making her way to bust her parents out of jail.

I have no phobias. Phobias are irrational. My fears are rational and CAREFULLY CULTIVATED, like roses.

It was as if the news itself wanted to reassure me. Even Jack the Ripper himself had reappeared as part of the greeting committee.

He's been in love with Miss Gina since high school, but he doesn't really know how to talk to girls, so he's just been...staying around her since then. He just tends to go where she goes." "Isn't that stalking?" Jazza said. "Legally, no," I replied. "I asked my parents this when I was little. What he does is creepy and socially awkward, but it's not actually stalking.

Just then, my phone started ringing. The ring must have been damaged by the water as well, so now it had a high, keening note - kind of the sound I imagine a mermaid might make if you punched her in the face.

I read two mysteries a day when I was a kid. All of Agatha Christie, all of 'Sherlock Holmes.' I've seen every single British detective show ever made.