THE DAY DEAN DIED
It was an ordinary afternoon in Bailey Falls, the kind that left the streets warm beneath the autumn sun and filled the air with the familiar sounds of people going about their lives. Somewhere near the town centre, a shopkeeper was arguing cheerfully with a customer over the price of a basket of apples. Cars passed along the road outside the café. A little boy chased a ball down the pavement while his mother called after him.
Dean returned from band practice with his instrument case slung over his shoulder and exhaustion sitting heavily in his limbs. His shirt clung to his back, his hair was untidy, and the strap of his case had left a faint red mark across his shoulder.
He let himself into the house and closed the door behind him.
"I'm home!"
His voice travelled through the quiet hallway.
No answer came.
