Russian Hill (Paperback)

A black rectangle popped up on the screen, and a moment later footage of a young woman with a ponytail began to play. She walked on a trail while looking up at the trees around her. Every now and then, she would playfully look back at the camera. “Why are you filming me? You should be filming your wife in all this beauty.”

“Oh, it’s just that we’re both having such a wonderful time with you,” said a male voice off camera. “I want this for memories. Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Absolutely.” Another woman’s voice could be heard outside the frame. She stepped into view and hooked arms with the young woman. “Trust me, Piper; he has a ton of pictures of me. It’s nice not having to be the focus of his lens.”

“You both look great,” said the male voice.

The young woman let go an innocent laugh. She appeared unaware of her beautiful Mediterranean looks. Her long locks started with dark roots until right above her shoulder, where they began to lighten into perfect, washed-out surfer strands at the tips. She stood tall at six feet even and sported long, graceful limbs. The cut-off denim shorts and gray, San Francisco Giants T-shirt she wore complemented her naturally olive complexion, and her cross-trainers perfectly highlighted her slender calves.

The three had left the paved path of the park, where most visitors spent their time, and ventured on to one of the many trails that crisscrossed the surrounding forest. Forty minutes later, and without passing a single other hiker, they reached a beautiful clearing and rested. Birds could be heard talking to each other while the leaves rustled every so often from the gentle breeze—a calmness foreign to most city dwellers.

“This reminds me of growing up in Ohio,” Piper said from the screen. “It was so quiet there—only the sounds of nature. Nothing more.”

Piper had been looking straight up toward the trees while slowly spinning around. As she turned toward the camera, the older woman entered the frame with her right arm cocked back. She firmly planted both feet before swinging her arm around in a wide arc as hard and as fast as she could, driving a small hatchet directly into Piper’s chest. Thunk. The force nearly toppled the young woman, but the older woman grabbed her shirt and steadied her before backing out of the frame.

Piper’s eyes widened as she looked down at the instrument buried deep in her chest. Her bottom lip trembled as a dark, red stain spread from the hatchet and across her shirt. She took a few quick breaths, looking straight into the camera. A moment later, she dropped to her knees. The camera followed. Still, she focused on the lens, unable to speak and barely breathing. 

She reached out with one arm, her only way to convey the two words her mouth no longer could: Help me. 

And then she fell.

The camera followed as she hit the ground on her left side, her eyes still gazing at the lens. 

One breath. Then another. Then nothing.