PROLOGUE

After all these years, why in hell am I thinking of Ken Mitchell? That bastard! How dare he drag his friends into his terrible plight to find his missing daughter?

Terrible memories are rushing back. My mind is overflowing with fury.

I try to calm my anxieties by admiring the beauty of my garden and appreciate the privilege to be able to sit here in my rocker and enjoy the many varieties of foliage snuggling close, so many beautiful colors huddled in one place. I sense they are trying to tell me something. What is it? Even the branches on the trees, heavy with leaves, reach toward me stirring precious memories long forgotten. These memories will soon fade and the horrors of yesteryear will surface, horrors I would rather forget. . . forget? Thanks to Ken Mitchell, it is not possible.

Suddenly an angry voice blasts into my consciousness; “Rene DuBois, you are an old lady... much too old! Clear out those recesses of your mind and make space for what lies ahead. If circumstances still haunt the tunnels of your mind, you must erase these horrors and move on.”

My attention is riveted. A second, more resolute, voice insists that I listen and act. I wait with anticipation for the next instruction; yet nothing comes...total silence. That moment frozen in time draws my attention to a single rose nestled in a nearby flowerbed. Its lovely crimson petals beckon to me. A name from the past, clear as the morning dew, springs to my lips. Softly I whisper “Rosy!”

Roselee Payton, Rosy we called her, is one of three devoted friends of our youth. Mendy Sue Parker and I completed the trio.

I have lost contact with Mendy but I feel certain that Rosy knows where she is and we will be a trio once again even if it is via the post. Now with renewed confidence I can begin my “Letters to Rosy.”