The obituary was short. Almost too short.
"Allison Vale, 17, passed away unexpectedly.
No service will be held."
I read it three times. Once to confirm it was really there. Twice to let the weight of it settle. A third time just to feel the strangeness of my own name in print, nearly packed between the classified ads and an overpriced funeral home advertisment.
The world believes I was dead. That was the plan.
I set the paper down on the cheap motel nightstand, next to the burner phone that wouldn't stop buzzing. When I finally picked it up, a single text flashed on the screen.
It was an address.
"Meet me here in five hours" I signed as I laid back down on the bed. There was no backing down now no matter what.