"I don't believe that murders can be 'solved.' I think that this is the big lie of the mystery novel, that you should close the book and feel that the world is back in order and everything's all right. I want the reader to know that the world is not all right, and maybe we ought to do something about it."
– George Pelecanos
And so it is with some reticence that I should at long last deign to commit to these virgin pages a full account of certain occurrences that have urged me to call into question the very truths that we all believe to be fundamental to both life and death, as well as what must come after.
Whether or not the world at large is ready for such a revelation, or if you who now read these words will even beggar belief that such a queer set of circumstances must have transpired, I cannot say. I can only recount them in the best fashion that my unpracticed hand may allow, and count on you to draw the correct conclusion.
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Nine months ago, I crossed a threshold.
It was not a conscious thing, and even now I cannot recall with any certainty when it was that I abandoned the mundane life that I so held dear in order to flirt with concepts and ideas that most would consider so foreign and incomprehensible as to be nigh unearthly. Even if I should try to convince myself it were a dream, my faculties would quickly deny me, for it was a thing all too familiar, if forgotten.
Understand, however, that I do this not for care of remuneration or acclaim. This goes beyond such frail and meaningless distinctions. What I discovered beyond that veil was a warning; a silent edict to which we are all ignorant, yet all the same imperiled by.
Even you, who as of yet know nothing of what I speak, are in grave danger. Or perhaps especially, for it was ignorance that served as the root cause. And if you should be fortunate as to never cross such weirdness on your journey through this short, frail little life, it would do well of you to know, if not only to have a sense of respect for just how far-reaching one’s actions can be. Or how sometimes, it is inaction that does the greatest harm.
This tale begins, as these things are like to do, with a seemingly ordinary moment; something that, up until then, I had taken for granted. It begins approximately one year ago, on the day that I would drink the very last cup of my favorite tea.
TRAVELEYA CLEYNE