It had to happen on the last moving day. They blamed the fucking piano.

Their mother, Mariana Maverik, was an aspiring artist. She dedicated hours to the piano for a living. Then, four months ago, she died abruptly. Even though doctors said the breast cancer wasn't at a stage to be of worry, one night, she got sick and went to the hospital. Within twelve hours, she was gone. Artemis Maverik could remember countless nights falling asleep to the gentle notes of her pieces. Their father decided to keep the old piano attached to the memories of the fractured strings and worn keys. Artemis honestly couldn't care less about what they deemed a hunk of junk; their mom will always be in their heart. They don't need the piano.

Since their mother's passing, the home Artemis grew up in had grown cold and lifeless. Grief and sorrow had whittled away at the foundation of the small family, leaving them shattered and grappling to hold each other together. Each scuff or mark bled with memories that felt like a hot knife twisting in their guts. Fortunately, Artemis' father, Detective Victor Maverik, had a fantastic opportunity to fall into his lap. His supervisor offered a higher position in the remote town of South Park, Colorado, as the new chief of police. Apparently, the last one was involved with questionable drug rings. It was a couple of days before they drove from Austin, Texas, to Colorado—a twelve-hour drive, and the large grand piano was the last thing to move. It took Victor, two hired moving men, and Artemis to lift it. Their father thought it would be easier if Artemis were to lift from underneath it.

Long story short, the piano dropped, its legs broke, and Artemis was crushed underneath it.

Fan-fucking-tastic.