Sometimes, Celeste got a feeling. Maybe a more sophisticated word would have been intuition. Some gentle tug on her mind that told her to investigate, examine. To dive back into a world that she had long left behind.
Without knowing what she was really looking for, she had typed in the name of an independently run newspaper from her hometown. Celeste drifted toward the death notices like a stray balloon being bobbed along by a breeze.
There was a small blurb, no picture, no sentiment. Just the announcement of the passing of a mysterious man named Lyle Henry, age 63. Survived by nine children, and also father of deceased...
Celeste let the phone drop. This meant more than just the death of a family patriarch, where she came from. The brunette stood from the motel bed, clutching her stomach. After a moment of tense silence, she grabbed her bag and ran out the front door, letting a sudden gust of wind shut it closed behind her as she ventured sightlessly out into the night.