As I enter the school building, I find the nearest bathroom and lock myself in a stall. It's just me, alone in a cubicle, my chest heaving, breath quicking. I brace my hand on the wall, eyes brimming with tears. I try to focus on the black and white tiles lining the floor. One, two, I count. It's no use. I'm not in control. My heart rate increases. It was just a conversation with my sister. Just a conversation with my sister. The same sister who used to read me bedtime stories when we were children, naive to the destructiveness of society. The same sister who tore my life apart with her perfect fucking hands, who ripped my soul into shreds and made me watch, salt streaming into my mouth, throat raw and aching as she took away all I cared about. The same sister who protected me.

Our encounter wasn't even something remorseful, one of our infamous screaming matches, ending with us both in tears, feuding over the smallest of things. It wasn't even one of our long conversations, hours spent side by side, hearts on our sleeves, vulnerable as ever. It was just a conversation. A civil, simple conversation in which she seemed concerned about me. Not like she ever could be concerned, there was absolutely no chance, not after all she had done.

The sound of footsteps on the floor snaps me out of my haze, and brings me back to the present, hands shaking against the green walls I've caged myself into. I take a deep breath, two. My erratic breathing slows, and I sit on the closed lid of the toilet, eyes shut, breathing in and out. Feeling as composed as I can be, I walk out of the stall, glaring at my puffy eyes in the mirror opposite me as I'm washing my hands.

From behind me, the dark green door of a stall swings open, and from it, a pair of dark red doc martens walks out, the shoes matching the hair of the individual wearing them.

"Hey Hazel." Faye's face forms a polite smile as she walks to the sink next to me, busing herself by lathering her hands with the minimal soap provided from the shitty dispensers the school refills once a year. Her face is tense, concentrated. I never knew someone could be so invested in hand washing. She quirks an eyebrow at me when senses my eyes on her. I clear my throat, and look away abruptly, focusing on drying my hands with paper towel.

"I'm meeting with Khoi in a few minutes," she says casually, as I'm turning to exit the bathroom, my hand on the brass doorknob of the wooden door. "You can come. You don't have to, but..." she trails off, eyes locked firmly on the floor in front of her, head in a daze.

I contemplate her invitation, disregarding the sharp voices in my head insisting I don't follow her. I don't particularly want to sit through a meeting with a couple of wannabe detectives, but it's either that or face my sister again. It's hardly a choice.

"I'll come."

Faye smiles, and I swear the sun shone brighter in that moment, if only for a second.

𓆙

The library is quiet when we enter, the soft clicking of keyboard keys the only sound distinguishable in the eerie silence. Faye spots Khoi at a table near the back of the library, furthest from the large windows, sandwiched in between a particularly large 'translated classics' bookshelf. He's on his laptop, enthralled by the content within it that he doesn't notice we're there until we each take a seat either side of him.

"Oh. Hey guys," he says, looking up from the glare of his laptop screen.

"Have you found anything about the murders?" Faye asks, face alight with hope. AT this, Khoi shuts his laptop, and stares at the two of us with wide eyes.

"No." He begins, voice somewhat weary. "No, and that's the strange thing."

"'No' as in you can't find anything useful?" Faye asks, concerned.

"I mean 'No' as in I can't find anything at all about the murders." He opens up his laptop again, and shows us his screen.

The search bar reads 'Woodbridge murder'. The results-

"Nothing." I whisper. Absolutely nothing. The screen shows information about a band- 'Mothers Murder' coming to play at Woodbridge Hall in the early 2010's, and various wood panelling services you can hire throughout the town. As Khoi scrolls further down the list, it becomes more and more apparent that the murders of Faye's uncle, and Markus Raz are undocumented.

"Exactly- doesn't that strike you as really fucking weird?" Khoi asks us, as if he knows what we're thinking and wholeheartedly agrees. I begin to think, recollections of the last day playing back in my mind. The concern, the confusion, of all who'd seen us splashed in blood. The unaware look on Mr. Raz's face when I told him I was sorry. The fact that he didn't even seem upset in the slightest. The utter lack of gossip- the lack of whispers about how the infamous Markus Raz died, the lack of harsh stares being directed our way- suspects, witnesses of his death. The fact that no police had come to the school, to take statements from the students, to speak to the dead child's father. Now that it's all adding up, it doesn't seem so weird at all.

"No-" I begin, attempting to string my thoughts together to form a coherent sentence. "No, I mean, think about it, why have no police come to the school to speak to Mr. Raz- it was his son who died after all."

Khoi was contemplating this, face screwed as he thought. Beside him, Faye was staring out into space.

"How come you know that Markus died?" I asked her, calculatively. She wasn't with us the night of the murder, and yet she still somehow knew of Markus' death in a way that everyone else did not.

Her cheeks grew warm, "I was out that night too." She takes a deep breath. "I was walking down the street when you three clambered out of a window, shaking out of your minds. I heard you Hazel, yelling at Khoi and Amaia, something along the lines of 'and Markus was literally just murdered'. I didn't hear the rest, I ran away before you could see me."

I took her in. Faye, her cheeks now matching the colour of her hair, eyes avoiding my stare. Khoi and I share a glance. I imagine myself in her shoes, out alone in the street, when suddenly three of my peers climb out a window, soaked in blood, screaming about a murder of an ex-student. The image is so ridiculous, I burst out laughing.

When Faye and Khoi looked at me with wide eyes, I just grinned. "I believe you Faye, don't worry."

A lie.

I didn't. Not a single bit.

𓆙

To no avail we'd stayed in the library for two hours, trying to find at least something about the two recent murders. We couldn't find anything- not a single word. Amaia had found us, nearing the ninety minute mark, the three of us burnt out, lacking any sort of hope. After we'd filled her in with the details, and attempted a further fifteen minutes of scanning every news website in the entirety of the country, we'd found nothing.

"I just don't get it!" Khoi's voice travelled through the corridor as we made our way to the dining hall for dinner. "How come we are literally the only people here that know Markus died?"

"Maybe this is all a setup-" that was Amaia, grinning as she theorised. "Maybe we're all in a Truman Show remake- The Truman Show- reality edition. Where do you think they'd put the cameras? I want them to get my good side. "

"No." I responded, fed up with my friend's antics. "I think there's something more serious going on here."

Faye nodded from beside me. "Exactly. Do we even know if these people actually remember Markus?"

It was, admittedly, a good question. As much as Markus left a lasting impression on the school, he was never really talked about. His name was engraved in the ceilings of multiple classrooms, half the oval was still hot pink from when he'd dyed it, and even now, two years after his big, extravagant last day, people were still finding the thousands of small slips of paper he'd hidden around the school, filled with the secrets of half the faculty and student body. He was a taboo topic, anyone who fell victim to his very last prank sensitive to the very mention of his name.

"No idea." I responded.

"Wait." Khoi stopped abruptly, bringing the whole group to a standstill. "What the fuck happened to all the people in the concert with us? They would have seen Markus die right? Why has nobody said anything? Did nobody think to mention this to the police?"

"You're right." Faye was glancing up at the ceiling, as if the wooden beams would give her an answer. "Something is going on."

I nodded in agreement. It was strange- unbelievably, remarkably strange. "I just wish we could- I don't know- watch what happened that night again."

Amaia smiled. "I know just the person who can make that happen."

𓆙

authors note

Once again, thank you so much for reading! Votes and comments are also appreciated so much!

Here's a question for you all: If you were in a murder mystery, who would you be? Personally, I think I'd be like the best friend, or the sister or something of the person who got killed. I'm definitely not smart enough to be one of the main characters, or mysterious enough to be one of the suspects.

Anyway, please bear with my inconsistent update schedule, I'm going to be posting this chapter and the next very close to eachother, and then three more throughought Febuary. 

Thanks for reading! :)