I didn't want to risk getting Dakota or Liam into any more trouble. If they knew about the bullet, they could be arrested along with me. Associated with a murder, I thought with a shudder. I threw my heavy blanket over the box. Out of sight, out of mind. I wished that statement were true.

I couldn't go downstairs and tell my parents. I couldn't even imagine Carson's parents' faces when they found out that I was the killer--no, that I was framed for being the killer. Or threatened by the killer, or the killer's next target. They wouldn't care. They would only see me as the girl who killed their son.

I needed help. I didn't want to call the police. Honestly, it would probably be the right move, but Eliza and her partner, according to Pierce Prescott, seemed like they were set that I was the killer. After all, why else would a stranger write my name while he was dying? I reached into my pocket and pulled out the business card. He's going to teach my how to lie, I thought, my wobbly fingers mashing against the screen. But he's going to have to lie for me, too. I supposed he was the only one I could trust that I didn't care for. If Dakota or Liam or my parents or even the Harris family went to jail because of this damn bullet, I would never forgive myself.

I hit the green "call" button and prayed he would pick up. "Hello?" a muffled voice answered.

"Is this the office of Mr. Prescott?" I asked, my voice low and trembling.

"Yes," the voice bluntly replied. "Who are you?"

"I'm Avery Carter, Mr. Prescott's new client," I replied. "I need to see him right away." There was a pause. "Hello?"

"Yes, I understand. Has a certain issue arisen regarding the circumstances we discussed earlier?" We? I thought. Pierce Prescott sounded cocky and confident last time we spoke, but now he sounded garbled and tired.

"Y-yes, yes there has," I replied.

"Okay," he said. "Can you come now?"

I heaved in relief. "Yes, I can come now."

"Okay. Go to the address on the card. See you soon." He abruptly hung up on me, leaving me to slack my shoulders and fall back onto the bed.

"Please, let this work," I begged to anybody that was listening. I was praying that the killer wasn't the only one paying attention to my pleas, thinking of the photos that they had taken of me without my knowledge. They knew me. And now they had my attention.

I snuck outside through the backdoor. My father saw me and nodded me along. I mouthed a "thank you" to him and quietly slipped out and made my way around the house.  46 Washington Way, I thought. It couldn't be too far away. I punched the address into the GPS in my phone. It was about twenty minutes away. I climbed into my car--which had been where Dakota promised it would be--set the box down on the passenger's side, cranked up the volume of the radio, and grinned broadly at a note that was resting on the driver's wheel. I'll always be here for you XOX, it read, leaving me to think, Thank goodness for you, Dakota.

I began down the road, dreading my encounter with Pierce Prescott. Not because of the picture that he showed me, or because of his personality, but because of what he would say. What lie he would concoct for me to announce to the world. How would I get away in the case of Carson's murder? I cranked up the volume even further to drown out my thoughts, but failed miserably. My only reply was: Did you ever make it out of that town where nothing ever happened?

I pulled into the driveway of a building that I found quite quaint. The lawn was nicely trimmed and bright flowers adorned the walkway. I grabbed the box and made my way to the door, knocking on the red-painted wood. It was chipped, as if someone had punched the door several times and never got around to repairing the thing. After several minutes, I knocked again, my arm mid-swing when the door flew open. "Avery?" Pierce Prescott asked.

"Y-yes," I replied, nodding slightly. He nodded and gestured for me to walk in. The building seemed smaller on the inside, but perhaps that was due to all of the clutter. There were boxes stacked in every single corner and files were thrown about all around the floor. Pierce Prescott staggered around, eventually stumbling over to a door and opening it with fidgeting hands. The room we entered was even messier, with a desk in the center with papers and glasses spread all around it. A television mounted on the wall blared the news while bookshelves parallel to the wall were standing proud on the other side of the room. "Shouldn't you have an office at the precinct since you're the public defender?" I inquired as Pierce Prescott took a seat.

"Yes, but they paid me to not have one there. They didn't appreciate my morning hobby." I was about to inquire what that hobby might be when he pulled open a drawer and removed a bottle of whiskey. "You drink?" he inquired. I vigorously shook my head as he threw his legs up on the desk and his arms behind his head. "So, what's in the box?" I handed it to him. He rummaged through it.

"Mr. and Mrs. Harris came to my house today," I explained as he scrutinized the letter. "They gave me that."

"And they didn't look through it?"

"I don't think so," I answered, playing with my hair.

"Well, they gave you this box with a threatening letter in it. That seems like evidence that they killed their boy."

"No! No, they wouldn't," I replied, somehow sure of myself. Mrs. Harris's blank expression seemed like proof enough for me.

My lawyer suddenly sat up straight and asked, "Avery, why didn't you go to the police with this?"

I paused before carefully choosing a response. "They seemed like they had it out for me. I didn't want to tell my friends or parents so they couldn't be involved any further."

"So why wouldn't you tell them that you're being targeted?"

"I don't even know who wrote it!" I replied. "They could've said that I forged it, and asked where the bullet came from, and why Carson's parents gave me the box in the first place. And then the cops would've questioned them and asked why they didn't look in the box and see that note written, and then they would've been suspects, and I don't want anyone going to jail because of me."

Pierce sighed. He stared into blank space and began to weave a tale of love and loss. "Game plan: you were in love with Carson Harris. You two planned on eloping after high school since you realized you were soul mates--and your parents didn't realize, of course. Carson left that box with you full of memories: a teddy bear that he won for you at the county festival, a harmonica from your elementary school band, a necklace that you bought at a market, a camera that he used to take all those pictures of you to capture the real moments of your lives. And when Carson was shot, he wrote down the only thing on his mind: the love of his life's name."

It sounded convincing and I was actually impressed on how he had come up with the lie on the spot. "I have a boyfriend, though. People know that."

"He didn't know that you were in love with Carson. You went out with him to not raise suspicion from your parents."

"And what about the letter?"

"Are you sure you don't want this getting out?"

"I...I'm sure."

"Ask me again."

"Okay...then what about the letter?"

"What letter?"

"The--oh." Pierce Prescott nodded and folded the letter in half. He shoved it in his drawer next to his whiskey tumblers.

"It hasn't been released to the public that Carson was murdered yet," Pierce suddenly said. "The funeral was only three days after he was pronounced dead. So far all that's happened is rumors and speculation that he killed himself or that he had a heart attack. But I'll tell you this: the media always finds out." He gestured to the TV screen. "I've been watching all day to see if they've reported on it yet."

"Have they?"

"No, not--"

"Breaking news. Eighteen year-old resident of Eldbourne, Pennsylvania, Carson Harris, has been murdered. Police were reluctant to release the information of the murder until further evidence had been found regarding the murder, but police have now found a suspect." The screen cut to a press conference with a very official-looking police officer standing by a podium addressing the public.

"Speak of the devil," Pierce said. He took a swig from his glass and groaned. "Are you sure you don't drink?" I ignored his question and stared at the screen.

"The heartbreaking case of town resident Carson Harris is being investigated," the officer announced.

"Why...why would they announce this now?" I asked softly. "Does...does this mean they have a murder weapon? A witness? A motive?"

Pierce Prescott laughed and gulped down another swig of his drink. "No, kid; they're just trying to scare you off. Trust me, if there's a witness or weapon found, I'll be the first one to know about it."

"The victim was discovered with a bullet wound to the stomach, and a name written out in blood. After further investigation, the main suspect in the case has been identified as a Miss Avery Carter, eighteen year-old resident of Eldbourne and fellow classmate of Carson Harris--"

Pierce shut off the television. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through something while I stood there, shaking in my shoes. "They...they're going to arrest me...they're not going to find out who killed Carson."

"Yeah, Maureen? Seven? That's a little tight for time--yes, yes, I know. Half past? Perfect! Thank you Maureen, love ya." Pierce smiled broadly as he hung up the call and stuffed his phone back in his pocket. "How good are you at acting?" he inquired. I couldn't seem to answer. Suddenly, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket. I reached in and saw my mom's contact photo blaring on the screen.

"H-hello?" I asked.

"Baby, I just saw the news, what's happening?"

"Is that your parent?" Pierce asked. I nodded. He reached a hand out. "Gimme the phone." I obeyed and tossed it over to him and sank onto the floor, letting my head collapse onto my knees. I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I didn't do it. Carson, why would you do this to me? What did I do to you, Carson? Who killed you, Carson? Why did you have to die, Carson?

"Yeah, we're holding a press conference at seven-thirty. We came up with a game plan--no, no, I know your daughter is innocent." Pierce held a hand to the phone and whispered, "Jesus, kid--your mother can talk, and talk, and talk--no, no; I'm still here. Yes, Mrs. Carter, your daughter is in safe hands--oh, you're getting your husband? Hello, Mr. Carter! Yes, your daughter--no, Avery is--Jesus Christ." Pierce set my phone down on the table. He counted down the seconds on his watch and then grabbed the phone. "Yes, I understand. Forty-six Washington Way, sir. Yes, see you soon. Have a good one--yes, I know it is not a pleasant day, sir--and he hung up."

"What...what are we going to do?" I asked, my voice muffled as my head was still buried between my knees.

"First, you're going to get up. Then, I'm finishing this drink and you're going to have a drink, because God you need one. Then, we're going to practice."

"Practice?"

"Your grand speech! Your tears! Your inability to keep the conference going because your heart is just so damn broken! We've got an hour, kid, so let's get going." Pierce guzzled down his drink and then poured a cup for myself. "Alright, get up." When I shook my head and refused to move, Pierce groaned and walked over to me. He placed his hands on his hips and said, "C'mon Avery. You don't know how annoying I can be."

"You're not even sober, so how can you help me?" I retorted.

"Avery, I'm almost never sober."

"That's not healthy," I quietly commented.

"Neither is cowering on the floor and not doing a damn thing to defend yourself. So, get the hell up, take a drink, and let's get to work." He reached his hand out and I looked up at him.

"Why do they call you a 'son of a bitch'?" I asked softly.

Pierce shrugged. "Because that's what we all are, but I just like to flaunt it around a bit more." I grinned and laughed slightly, which surprisingly made my lawyer chuckle in turn. I took his hand and stood from my fetal position. He handed me the glass. "Drink."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"I don't care," Pierce persisted. I took the cup from him.

"You know this isn't legal, right?"

"No, really? I had no clue; it's not like I'm a lawyer or anything." I rolled my eyes at his smug look and took the glass. This is a bad idea, but I don't think I really care right now. I closed my eyes and took a sip of the drink. It burned my throat and I coughed it out. Pierce laughed a hearty laugh and said, "You'll get used to it." He grabbed my arms and situated me in the center of the room. He pranced over to a table in the corner and dragged it over in front of me. "Okay, start to cry."

"What?"

"You heard me: start to cry," he echoed. I attempted to summon some tears but nothing answered my sorrowful façade. "Okay--we'll keep a picture of something sad to help you."

"Something--no, no, no!" I replied, backing up as he set the picture of Carson's limp body on the table. I began to choke on my words as tears welled in my eyes.

"Okay, good. Now, begin to talk about how much you loved Carson."

"I-I didn't love Carson."

Pierce rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Here, uh...talk about your boyfriend but just replace his name with Carson's." I nodded, tears still welling at the corners of my eyes. Okay, I can do this. I can do this.

"Liam--Carson. Carson, Carson. Carson and I began dating sophomore year of high school. He was really nervous, but I guess I was too. He took me to a local festival and won me a teddy bear in one of those claw-machines. Then he took me on a picnic in the woods near our neighborhood. And...and, I'm gonna fast-forward through all the cheesy teen rom-com moments...and...Carson took me back to those woods where we had our first date and proposed. I...I don't know if it was because I was really love with him or because we were a bunch of stupid kids...but I said yes. We planned on getting married when high school ended...and then...then Carson got murdered...and the last thing he thought about was me...and I...I'm sorry, I can't keep going..." I covered my face with my hands and wiped the tears falling down my face.

Pierce began to clap. "Bravo, Avery Carter. Bravo indeed. Now you just need to do that in front of dozens reporters and live in front of thousands of people--which include the people who want you behind bars and probably the person who killed Carson."

"Do...do you think that the cops are going to find out who really killed him?"

"Honestly--wait, I'm not honest." Pierce scratched his head. "Honestly, unless more evidence pops up, no." He stopped scratching his shaggy brown hair and grinned one large, fake grin. "And as a liar, I think they'll catch the bastard in a week, at most, and Carson will be fully avenged by the time that this case is up." I nodded as his fake grin dissipated and was replaced with a determined complexion.

And we kept practicing. My parents showed up about thirty-minutes later, hugged me, scolded Pierce (to which Pierce attempted to not roll his eyes and hide his bottles and glasses) and helped me practice. "Are you sure this is the right thing to do?" my mother asked as she held my hand.

"What's your name?" Pierce asked.

"Melanie Carter," she replied.

"Melanie, Brandon, I promise that this is the right thing to do." He grinned broadly to reassure my parents, to which they smiled in return and I could see their shoulders slacken and their eyes lighten up. Pierce glanced at me. His grin was genuine to them.

It was a big fat lie to me.