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This is the prologue of the new series I'm writing: Larry Carlyle.
The first book is called Abduction.

Please leave a comment of your opinion and well, I hope you
enjoy reading this.





Prologue:
Life is no Playground


Since the very first moment that Katherine Whitlock walked through the front door of her house she knew she had been right, and something was terribly wrong. Not that the house itself seemed to know any of that; everything was untouched, perfectly arranged as she had left it. Or at least, that’s how it seemed, the leather couch was intact, the TV was on, showing the known anchorman as he told the most recent news, the several Van Gogh’s paintings, all replicas of course, (for some reason she could not understand her father had always liked Van Gogh’s, though according to him it was merely because he thought they complimented the living room’s navy blue color) still lined the walls without being crooked in the slightest. Even all the magazines that Katherine had left there this morning before going to school were still sitting on the center table, all scattered and open. Everything seemed alright, as if it were specifically designed to exude an air of calm and normalcy; and yet the front door had been unlocked, moving open at her touch.

Katherine left her backpack on the couch and slowly made her way through the house. Samantha hadn’t believed her, her friend had dismissed her worries, and said she was only looking for an excuse to go home because she didn’t like her new school at all. Of course, Katherine had recently moved to New York, having to start high school where she didn’t know anyone. It would have been unbearable for her if she hadn’t had Samantha. The two had glued to the other since meeting. And still she had not believed her when, all jittery and nervous with that sense of foreboding, that she felt something had happened.

She couldn’t have explained why she was so sure. She just knew.

The door proves it, she thought as she stepped into the kitchen. Her father would never have left the door unlocked. Never, not in her wildest dreams. He had been a policeman, a very good one, and he never stopped stressing to her how important it was for her to always be careful, and that included locking the house whenever she was out or in it.

However, it was hard to retain that conviction when nothing in the house looked out of ordinary. The kitchen itself was also normal, not a chair of the dining table out of place, the fridge still showed her report cards – all straight B’s except for that horrible C in math – held to its surface by decorated magnets, and a used pan was still on the oven. Though that wasn’t strange, her father never washed anything right away, even the rest of the dishes he had used, plates, his favorite fork, were still in the wash waiting for him to take care of them. And it wasn’t like a thief would have used it to make breakfast before leaving and not taking the TV with him.

Finally Katherine had no more choice than to give in and shrug off her worries. After all, the door itself proved nothing. Her father could have simply forgotten to locked it after him or have not noticed that he had failed to do so. It was strange coming from him but she supposed it was possible. She opened the fridge and served herself some juice, resolving to calm herself and stop imagining things that were obviously not real.
It has been a long day, she said as she sipped from the juice in small portions, walking through the corridor towards her bedroom. I better rest until-
There was a sudden loud noise, like a mirror breaking, and at first, as stunned as she was Katherine did not realize that the glass had slipped from her fingers as the surprise took her and had broken as it had touched the floor, the juice pouring onto the floor like blood from an open wound.

She could do nothing but stand there staring, not at the broken glass and the juice staining the floor but at what lied before her, for the moment she had opened her bedroom door she had found why she had felt like something was wrong.

Her whole room was chaos. Her bed had somehow managed to get to the far side of the room, where it laid standing, leaning against the wall. The mattress itself was on the floor; stripped naked and butchered open as if someone had hoped to find something hidden inside. Her closet had been roughly pulled open, one of its double doors hanging off its hinges. All her clothes were scattered across the room, some of them even hanging on shelves, and several being torn apart. Her precious posters had been ripped from the walls. Her curtains were tattered. In summary, it looked like a storm had made its way through. And like a beacon in the middle of the darkness, a single page, creased with folds, laid amidst the destruction.

Feeling numb all over as if she had been recently hit on the head with a sledgehammer, Katherine moved towards it. She meant to lean slowly but her shaking legs could not hold her weight and she fell on her knees, the sobs she had felt coming finally coming out. She took the page on her hands, her fingers struggling to hold it steady.

And with eyes blurry with unshed tears, she read the few words that were written on it:
Kathy…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.