The Midsummer Mystery

The Eggnog Address Book

I hear myself growling. I've been calling relative to relative. Friend to friend. They all came up with fine excuses, but it was clear that I'm unwanted.

I don't blame them. Of course not. I wouldn't want someone to suddenly move in with me either if I was them... My arms are stretched across the table. My right hand is holding my cellphone, and the left one is crossing out names on my list. My light brown hair is looking more and more like a bird's nest.

I usually stick to my strict routines and keep myself in perfect condition at all times, but for the last month, I've forgotten all I ever knew about perfection.

I stand up from my parents' guest table. I only moved out one year ago to study in silence. Living one floor underneath my childhood home might not exactly be moving out, but after I left this floor, I no longer knew what my parents were up to. We rarely saw each other either after that.

My apartment has been up for sale for a while now, and quite a few have bid on it. As I'm in need of money, I'm pushing the auction as much as I can. I've even considered laying in a huge bid anonymously to see if anyone gets competitive, but it seems the bidders are doing well on their own for now.

As I walk towards the living room, something catches my eye. The door to my parents' bedroom is open. As my gaze slides in, I notice that one of the drawers is slightly open. My own tendency to keep things neat and structured hails from my mother. She was never one to leave anything untidy. Yet, this very drawer is, in fact, hers.

I can feel myself holding my breath as I rush over to it. My heart is beating rapidly as though I've just ran a marathon. My hands slip into the drawer. An eggnog yellow address book. It's not dusty or worn. It's brand new. As I flip the first page, I'm greeted by a detailed table of contents. Each address is sorted based on location. Was I meant to find this?

My eyes flicker across the pages. There! Address number 34 has been marked with a yellow marker that almost blends into the already yellowish pages. Marianne Hatter. I remember visiting her once as a child. She lived on a decent sized farm in a remote area, several hours from here. The perfect place of refuge.

I am without a single clue on what happened to my parents. However, this book proves that they saw it coming and had thoroughly taken precautions. So why couldn't they prevent their own deaths?