My name is Deja Floy. My mother was Varena Floy, my father was David Floy, before they were killed—but that's not the story that I'm here to tell right now.

I've lived in this world for twenty-four years, and not one moment of it has been normal. I don't think normal even truly exists, if I'm being honest with myself.

I won't take up too much of your time before hearing this story, I promise—there are more important things than the introduction and the basics. Still, you should at least know what I look like.

My hair is platinum blonde, pale enough it could be mistaken as being white in some lighting, and I was blessed with bright, vivid turquoise eyes that have more blue in them than green. I've got a full lower lip and the coveted natural cupid's bow on my upper lip, and they're naturally rosy lips too, thank you very much. I'm five foot nine with long legs, light fair skin with a pink undertone, and a slight hourglass frame.

I know I'm beautiful, I hear that all the time, but I don't care—it's as much a blessing as a curse. I can't walk into a bar without someone hitting on me before I leave, and that can be pretty damn annoying when I just want a drink, and sometimes people like to get way too touchy-feely. I tend to be objectified, too—they just see a pretty girl, and there's nothing more to me in their eyes.

It also makes me a target for the things that go bump in the night—they do love to prey on pretty girls, don't they?

It's a good thing I wasn't raised to be helpless—I was raised to fight back, and that's exactly what I've been doing for years.

But, surprisingly, this story doesn't start with me—it doesn't even start at the beginning, as a matter of fact. It starts with two brothers, an Impala, and a case...