When I got home from school that day I didn't know what to think. There was a woman who looked about 30 standing on my front porch. She was very pretty, and had long brown hair that framed her face. She wore blue jeans and a brown leather jacket- not like the ones you see bikers wear, it was nicer than that.

She turned to look away from me, at my neighbor's house, and the sun reflected off of something on her hip. I realized it was a badge. She was a cop. Why was there a cop on my porch?

She looked in my direction and must've guessed who I was, because she started to walk toward me. She had green eyes, the same color as mine. She looked like she was sorry for me, and that's when I realized that something must be terribly wrong.

"Hi," she said, "Are you Jessica Reynolds?" God I hated that name.

"Jessie," I said

"Ok, Jessie then. I'm Detective Beckett." That name rang a bell, but I couldn't figure out why.

"Detective?" Why was there a detective at my door?

"Yes, I'm a homicide detective." She said calmly.

"Homicide? Who was murdered?"

"Well, your mother was found shot to death in Washington heights this morning."

"What?" That was the very last thing I expected to hear.

"I'm very sorry." She did look sorry. She looked like she knew how I felt- not how most adults think they know how you feel, but they really don't. Someone close to her must've been murdered, or injured by someone.

"Who would do something like that?"

"That's what we're trying to find out. I know it's hard, but can you think of anyone who would want to harm your mother?"

"What? No. No one. But she's not my mother, really. She adopted me about five years ago. I don't know much about her life before that, except that she was never married."

"You're adopted?" she asked, as if she wasn't sure she had heard me correctly.

"Yeah, I was in foster homes before that." That was when I realized where I had heard the name Beckett before.

"Do you know who your real mother is?"

I had read murder mysteries before, so I know that if my real mother wanted me back, she might've been the one who killed my adopted mother. I, however, thought that was extremely unlikely in this case.

"Yes," I said, "I don't know much about her, but I know her name is Katherine Beckett."

Detective Beckett stared at me, just now seeing who I was