Here's the prologue I just wrote for my book. Let me know what initial thoughts you have!
Before I read the newspaper article, now clenched in my hand, I was only about 10% convinced my father was a murderer. Now, I’m closer to 25%.
I storm out of my dorm building and flop down at the bus stop a block away from its doors, my skirt dipping into a puddle. I ignore the skirt, flattening the article on my lap and re-reading the part about the grey-tipped gloves again. Black, with the ends of the thumb and first two fingers grey. My father owns a pair of gloves exactly like that. Such a random design, I find myself thinking. I’ve never seen anyone wearing gloves that look like that, not even any gloves with the first fingertips a different color in that way.
More frightening, those very gloves were sitting out on our kitchen table, the last time I was at home. In May. It is May, right? I’m not crazy? I check the date on the newspaper clipping. May 12, 2012. No, I’m not.
I glance down LaGuardia Place, impatient for the bus. The Twin Towers are visible, both of them peeking out at me from behind the bustle of Manhattan.
My head begins to hurt.