I thought about taking the letter to the police. So far, there hadn't been any advancements in their investigation—or, if there were, they hadn't released any information. Yet there I was, holding a vital piece of evidence and withholding it from the authorities.

I should hand it in.

But the thought of giving up the letter made my stomach churn in protest. Would I find a threat in my car the next morning? Would another letter turn up in my mailbox a week later? The part of me consumed by rage desperately needed an outlet. I needed someone to direct my hatred towards and this was the perfect opportunity.

Striking up your own investigation would do more bad than good.

I groaned internally, tired with the constant battle in my head. After a week of reading and re-reading, I had gotten nowhere. It was like I was trapped in this never-ending moment, where progress seemed to be non-existent. The letter explained that there were clues that suggested where the next would be found. But there were no signs of riddles or poems or anything remotely triggering. The more I read it, the less it made any sense.

Perhaps I wasn't cut out to be a detective. I took it as a sign to surrender the letter. If I couldn't figure out anything by the end of the day, I'd hand it over.

"Are you hungry?"

I looked up from the letter to see Cass standing at my door, holding a tray of food. Although I was graduated and perfectly capable of making my own lunch, she felt the need to baby me. I supposed it was just her older sister instincts kicking in and her unhealthy urge to keep busy under tender circumstances, but I would have felt a lot more comfortable if she had just gone back to university and focused on her studies. I enjoyed having her around, but I didn't like the reasons why she was visiting.

I shrugged and she entered, placing the tray on my study desk. "Thanks."

"What are you working on?" she asked, nodding at the piece of creased paper in front of me. "I thought school was officially over."

I reached out and grabbed it, folding it lazily. "Just doing some reading," I answered, shoving it between a couple of books. I had never been much of a reader, but it was the only excuse I could think of that included the paper. I hoped she wouldn't catch my lie.

"Your eulogy?" she asked timidly as if the remembrance of my breakdown at Colton's funeral would ignite another.

Her lie was much more believable, so I agreed. "Yeah."

"You really should apologise to the Crests," Cass continued, placing her hands in her pockets and rocking back on her heels. "Walking out in the middle of the service wasn't one of your greatest points."

"I know."

Cass dropped onto the edge of my bed and crossed her legs, nervously tucking a piece of hair away from her face. Her posture was impeccably perfect; back aligned straight, neck poised. That only meant one thing: she had news—and nothing particularly good.

"What?" I asked, spinning around in my desk chair to face her.

She shifted uncomfortably.

"Cass?" I prodded. "What is it?"

Eventually, my sister looked down at her hands and said, "Mum's coming."

"What?"

"She's on the next flight out," she explained, chewing her lip.

The divorce happened before I could remember. Cass said she remembered getting pulled out of preschool, but that's about it. According to my father, the divorce wasn't based on anything dramatic, like cheating. My parents had simply lost their spark of affection and agreed that it would be the best for them to go their separate ways. I thought it was one-sided though because Dad hadn't dated since then and my mum had since remarried and had an additional three kids.

She visited at least twice every year, usually on our birthdays and sometimes during the holidays, but other than that, we hardly saw her. She was like that distant relative that everyone has. The one who you share an awkward relationship with and who gives you presents you loathe because they hardly know you. That was the kind of connection I had with my mother.

"Is she bringing Ryan?" I asked. Ryan was the name of her new husband.

"No," Cass answered. "He's staying to look after the kids."

"Why is she even coming?"

"She thinks it might be a little overwhelming for you here. She wants to take you out for a week-long vacation. Anywhere you like as a graduation gift."

"I'm fine right here," I insisted, feeling my stomach drop at the thought of my mother being around and the thick, uncomfortable tension that came with her visits.

I wasn't sure if I could handle her presence, especially at mealtimes. She was an impressive cook, but that didn't compensate nearly enough for the deafening silence that consumed us at the table. There just wasn't anything I felt comfortable talking about with her and I was sure she felt the same. She was my biological mother, sure, but her family in Queensland were the ones she had grown to love and treasure. She left when I was barely two; I was pretty much a stranger.

Besides, I had six more letters to find.

"Maybe a change of scenery will make you feel better," Cass suggested. "I don't know about you, but this town just feels so much darker, even if it is spring."

"I'm not going anywhere, Cass," I answered firmly before I stood, picked up my keys and swiped the letter out from under the books.

"Elliot! Where are you going?" she called.

But I was already out the door and down the stairs. My dad was in his office, his old typewriter out and a stack of syrup-drenched pancakes next to him. The door was wide open, showcasing a messy display of unorganized papers and a wall of bookshelves filled with paperbacks with cracked spines. Dad looked up at me, startled wide-eyes growing behind his spectacles. Before he could open his mouth, I opened the front door and left.

* * * 

The Jukebox was the local diner, best known for its legendary music taste and the best burgers ever made, mostly because it had the thickest slab of beef patty and they didn't slack off with the beetroot. That was exactly what I ordered once I slid into a booth. That and a large side of rosemary seasoned chips and a large chocolate milkshake.

Then I took out the letter and read as I ate. The words on the page seemed a lot fresher because of the new scenery. The natural lighting from the window by my booth made the ink look a lot clearer and my grease-powered brain made me view the letter in a whole new point of view.

Take your time though. I have nothing but time.

Something about those two sentences ignited a spark within me. Time. Whenever I thought of time, I remembered Colton's pocket watch. The gold exterior, the way he always connected it to his jeans and the faint ticking sound whenever he opened it and examined the time as if it were a lot more complicated than it seemed. Maybe the next letter was in his pocket watch.

But as I was thinking it through, darkness loomed over my booth and a shadow was cast across the letter. Looking up, I saw Lydia, wearing one of her pastel dresses with the church collar and a silver cross around her neck. She had probably just come back from Saturday mass.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked timidly.

I motioned towards the seat across from me. She smiled slightly before sitting down and tucking her purse in her lap. Reaching out, I pushed the basket of chips towards her. I knew she wouldn't be able to resist. They were her favourite after all. As predicted, she reached over and grabbed a couple.

"Thanks," she muttered.

I took the letter in my hands and folded it away before Lydia had a chance to ask about it. She focused on the basket of chips on the table, first nibbling at the small, rejected chips that were extra crunchy from being in the deep fryer too long, but when they were gone, she started eating the bigger ones and filling up her appetite. It didn't take long for the entire basket to be empty, revealing a piece of oil-soaked paper towel left at the bottom.

"God, that was so good," she said guiltily, looking at the empty tray. "Hey, want to split a second round? I'm meant to be on a diet, but these chips get me every time."

She raised a hand to wave someone to our booth. It was then that I realised that I still hadn't apologised to her. I had exaggerated during my outburst and had said some things I soon regretted. Because although Lydia and I weren't exactly the closest during Colton's disappearance, it shouldn't have overshadowed the friendship we had before he left town.

"Lydia," I said, which caused her to turn and look at me worriedly, "how have you been?"

"With the diet?" she asked, laughing uncomfortably. "It sucks. I think I gained more than I lost. Comfort food, you know?"

"No," I answered, with a hint of a smile. "I meant how have you been with...everything."

She looked at me with blank eyes, an invisible barrier that told me I had hit a tender spot. But then she blinked, smiled weakly, and brushed some imaginary dirt off her dress.

"I've been...coping, I suppose is the word."

"I'm sorry for the things I said at Colton's funeral. It was uncalled for."

"No, no." Lydia shook her head. "The things you said were really...mind-opening. I realised how selfish I was even before he died. I could have been a better friend."

"I just feel so guilty–"

"We all have things we're guilty about," she answered, something dark crossing her face, before turning to the employee who arrived at our booth. "One large basket of rosemary seasoned chips, please. And a diet Coke. Elliot, do you want anything?"

Despite Lydia's suspicious behaviour, a weight had been lifted off my shoulders and the knot in my stomach loosened, making me feel significantly better. However, there was still one more apology to make. Whether it was the comfortable and familiar environment of the diner, Lydia's acceptance, or the awesome food, the stress and frustration I had been feeling all week had started to fade. And it was making me feel extremely determined to resolve all complications.

"No thanks," I answered. "I should actually get going."

"Oh?"

"I'm going to see the Crests. I still haven't apologised."

"You're full of apologies today, Elliot Parker."

"Maybe, but I hope the world is full of forgiveness today," I answered, picking up my jacket. "I don't mean to take off so abruptly."

"I understand," she answered, with a small arch of her lips.

"Want to grab a pizza sometime later this week? It's been a while since we just hung out. Just you and me."

As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt guilty. I didn't mean to imply that Colton was no longer around to be invited and that second meaning behind my words caused Lydia to flinch as if I had slapped her.

"I didn't mean—It wasn't supposed to come out like that."

It took a moment for her to breathe and look up, but when we made eye contact she forced out a smile. "No, yeah, I know what you mean. It's okay. Pizza sounds good."

But her voice told me she was lying—not just about the pizza either.