It was a rainy April afternoon and Scott Moffatt was reading through some fan mail. It was always the same boring stuff: "I love you so much!" "I wish that I could meet you!" It wasn't that he didn't appreciate it, but it was starting to get rather bothersome. He picked up another note, written sloppily with a lot of pressure put on the pen. He began to read and was immediately absorbed:

Dear Scott Moffatt,

I'm writing to you because I have no one else to turn to now. I know that you can't do anything about what follows, but at least I will have it released from my mind.

Only 2 months ago, my mother and father both died in a car crash. I was with them, but I lived, despite the loss of two fingers on my left hand. Since that night, some things have been missing in my life, all of which I will never have back again. If my writing is sloppy, it's because I cannot write well with only three fingers. I grew up using my left hand, and I have had to readjust to suit my disability.

When my parents died, I was passed from aunt and uncle to grandparents to family friends, but none of them ever wanted me long enough. I was tossed around like a hot potato until I decided yesterday that I'm not going to put up with it anymore.

Yesterday, my mind was a clear as it's been for a long time. I was thinking about my parents and how desperately I missed them, when I realized that my life was nothing without them. I decided then and there that I was going to slit my wrists. I'm scared, and I know that it's going to be a long time before I finally work up the courage to do it. But when I do, I'll finally get the peace and serenity I've craved for so long now. No one will really care anyway. No one at all.

Please, don't tell anyone about this letter. You have to promise me this, Scott. If they knew what I was going to do, they'd try everything to stop me. They'd only do it to keep their good name, though. So please, rip this letter up and throw it in the garbage. Forget that you even read it.

Thank You, love always, Angel Grandford.

Scott stared at the signature for a long time, too stunned to even think. Then he began to panic. What if Angel had already done it? What if she was already dead? What if she wasn't? Could he do anything to stop her? Yes, he could. He could fly out to wherever she sent the letter from, track her down and convince her to stop. There had to be a way. He grabbed the envelope and looked at the return address. 327 Blandword Street, London, England.

"Okay," he muttered to himself, "How am I going to get over there without letting anyone know about the letter?" He thought about this for a long time, then finally decided to tell just his father. If anyone would understand the situation, it would be his dad. After a long talk, they decided to go together the very next day. Scott would do everything. His dad would only be there for supervision and moral support.