The rain beat down on the street outside. He was so cold. Mother forgot to pay the heating bill last month, and he felt it.

Where was she anyhow?

Only a few moments ago, she was there, greeting his father at the door. And now, where were they? He walked up the stairs of his little house, shivering at the cold draft. He creaked the door to his mothers bedroom open, yet was greeted by nothing but emptiness, and a drip from the ceiling.

His father had promised to fix that.

He walked down the stairs again, rubbing his bare arms to keep from freezing. He checked the living room – empty as well. He was greeted by emptiness and silence wherever he went.

Something wasn't right.

Did they leave him? No, they couldn't of, he thought. He walked from room to room, even stopping in his bedroom to check.

He felt tears stinging the back of his eyes. No, he would not cry. He walked into the kitchen to get a glass of milk and think.

And then he saw.

There she was, lying on the floor, a look of surprise on her face. He knelt down to her. "Momma?" He choked. He told himself, she will wake up and everything will be all right. He cuddled next to her, searching for her warmth. Yet she was cold, oh so cold. Her pale face and blue lips still held that face of shock. He took her arm and wrapped it around himself, ignoring the pool of blood under her neck. She would wake up, he told himself, I will stay here with her and she will wake up. Yet even so, he knew what had happened. He knew.

Rebekka Sanders sat in her car, watching the rain pour down. She wished she hadn't been transferred here to Seattle, it made her gloomy and depressed with all the rain and wind. Sure, there were some great sights, but with the weather, she never wanted to go anywhere.

She stopped at a red light, watching the windshield wipers use all there might to shift the loads of water off the car, yet with next to no luck. Her fingers, delicate and small, tapped away in a silent rhythm on the steering wheel. It was after work, a day of sorting through files, medical records, morgue tags, everything. Setting up an office she didn't like, and didn't want.

Her life was dull, boring, all the adventure of being a detective was gone. She was young, younger than anyone in the job, and people didn't believe her strength. She had wanted this job her whole life, and yet no one understood, agreed, believed. School was a constant battle with teachers and getting a job anywhere was hell. All because she was only 23 when she started. She would turn 24 in 3 months, June 2005.

The light turned green, but the traffic was so congested that she had to stop again. Looking out the left side of the street she saw the form of a man, stumbling through the trees.

Strange, very strange, he seemed…wounded.

She looked ahead, a sign said no U turn and she groaned in frustration. Then she remembered she had sirens on her car. She reached under her steering wheel and pressed a round button turning on her lights and sirens. Yet no one moved. Ignorant drivers, she thought. She weaved a bit in the traffic and made a U turn anyway, if she got a ticket, she didn't care. She turned of her siren and parked by the sidewalk. Quickly opening her door, she was greeted by a strong burst of wind. Damn this town, she thought as she pulled her gray trenchcoat tighter around her. She locked her door behind her and walked behind the house where she saw the man. He was on the ground, staring at nothing with wild eyes, gasping for breath. She touched her gun lightly, just for assurance as she kneeled down. "S-sir?" She asked. She got no answer, just mouthing and gasping. She tried to stand up, but the man grabbed her arm with incredible force, staring into her eyes with cold terror. She winced in pain; his handprint would leave bruises. He stayed that way for a long time, as if frozen, then relaxed in a single shudder and closed his eyes. She took two fingers and checked his pulse on his neck, but was greeted by silence and a slow trickle of blood.

He was dead.

She stood up, wiping the blood on a handkerchief in her pocket and taking her radio from her side.

"This is Detective Sanders, code 00273 on the intersection between 7th and Willow, 6:27pm. I've got a murder on my hands and I'm requesting backup." The radio crackled to life.

"You said a murder on the intersection between 7th and Willow, Miss Sanders?"

Then she saw.

The trail of blood, leading to the house; that must have been where the man came from. She looked through the open backdoor, faintly seeing the figure of someone on the floor, and she knew. She suddenly felt cold, colder than she already was, and she knew it was not because of the wind.

"Miss Sanders? Do you read?"

She focused once again.

"Two murders here, two murders."

The boy still lay by his mother, silently crying and praying. The roof creaked and he jumped. He had become so accustomed to this old house, the creaks and groans that it made. Now, everything made him jump. In the forceful wind, the back door opened, revealing him and his mother to the outside world. He squeaked, burying his head in her chest as he always used to. Only now, she did not laugh and wrap her arms around him. She stayed frozen. He wanted her to hug him, to rock him back and forth, to pat his head, and stroke his golden blonde hair.

Like rays of sunshine, she used to say, a gift from the gods.

The boy heard someone outside, someone talking on a radio, a woman, but he only closed his eyes tighter, he didn't want to see anymore.

Murder

That is what the person outside said and he shuddered. He knew what it meant, he had heard about it on all the mystery shows on the TV. His mother always laughed when she saw him watching those shows, saying they were no good. But they hardly ever got TV, so she let him watch what he pleased when they did.

He was in one of those shows.

Someone had killed his Momma. And his Pop too, maybe. Where was he anyhow? The boy didn't really care. His Pop hardly every came home, and when he did, he was always yelling at him and at his Momma. The boy had learned to live with that, yet he dreaded every time his Pop came to the door. His Momma though, she bore the load quietly, without any complaints.

He heard footsteps and whimpered. Someone was coming. Maybe it was his Pop, maybe it was the murderer. Whoever it was, he didn't want to see.

Rebekka left the man outside and looked through the door. She didn't want to know what was inside, but she felt compelled to. Slowly, she walked in, noticing the creaks and groans of the house. She saw a woman, laying in the same manner as the man outside. Yet by her side was a child, whimpering. She knelt down, touching his arm, expecting it to be cold. Yet his smooth skin was warm, alive. He shuddered at her touch. Carefully, slowly, she took of her coat and lay it over him.

"There, your going to be alright."

She had never dealt with children before, and mostly, she despised being around them, they always had too much energy for her. Yet she felt a connection to this boy, a loving compassion.

The boy lifted his head as he heard her voice, there was something soothing, something relaxing about that voice. He looked up, but he didn't see Rebekka Sanders there, he saw his own Momma.

"Momma!" He cried to her. He crawled over to her lab and latched on, sobbing.

Before Rebekka knew what was happening, the boy was on her, wrapping his small, pale arms around her waist. She didn't know quite what to do, she knew nothing about children. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around him, unsure if this was the right thing to do. Yet something clicked inside her, and she knew exactly what to do. She hugged him firmly, putting him on her lap and rocking him back and forth. She cooed softly in his ear, telling him everything was fine now. She stroked his head, his golden hair.

Like rays of sunshine.