A/N: This will be my only author's note, so I'll tell y'all once: stories aren't my forte, but I had this idea, and liked it. This is just the prologue; we'll see how it goes.

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October 20th, 1998

The television buzzes. Even muted, there's an unmistakable static, an electronic sizzle. Talking heads chatter on--experts on any subject in their own worlds, with degrees in journalism or media arts. This seems to qualify them for everything, and they seem more tantalized than horrified; gleeful, almost.

"The three children responsible for the murder of a thirty-three year old man plead guilty today..."

"Personally, I think they should've all gotten the death penalty...they're practically teenagers--they knew what they were doing!"

"I can't believe they gave the two older ones more time--they're kids! They didn't know what they were doing!"

"The media is clearly to blame here. If these little girls hadn't been inundated with violent images from the day they were born, this would never have happened..."

"These so-called 'innocent children' are obviously sociopaths. It would've happened no matter what..."

The two twelve-year-old girls are from broken homes, if such a thing exists; the excuses are apparent there. Carla, or "La" as she's called, can't help but burst into hysterical giggles ever so often, her brilliant blue eyes glazed over. She's the least mature of the trio, but looks old for her age. Her strawberry-blonde hair is meticulously curled, just like her four-year-old sister's, just like her stone-faced mother's.

Fiona is pale and black-haired, with freckles dusting her cheekbones and nose. She's a wiry little spitfire, famous at her little private school for being the only sixth-grader talented enough at softball to make it onto the junior high school team. Her teammates show up at the courthouse with little green ribbons pinned to their blazers to show their support. Her fathers and brothers, towering muscle-bound men, surround her like a wall as she wades through the press and paparazzi, flinching away from the flashing lights.

The press has become especially focused on one of the girls, branding her "Maureen Bell" after Mary Bell, the 10-year-old serial killer from the 1960s. She's only a year older. Tall for her age, nearly five-four, and pale brown all over--the darkest shade is her skin, the lightest is her sun-streaked hair. She has serious eyes and her bottom teeth are slightly crooked. Her elbows and knees are scratched and scabbed from exacting vicious revenge on schoolyard enemies. It was clear from the start that she was the leader; she told the other girls what to say when they were caught and the evidence was stacked against them all--they confessed to the killing, to planning the death of a stranger, but never said why.

Why? That was what everyone wanted to know.

Why would three little girls conspire to commit cold-blooded murder?

Nobody was saying, and if Maureen had her way, nobody ever would.