Betrayal resides in every ounce of blood coursing through her veins. Boo paces back and forth across her living room, wearing a track in her carpet while trying to process her argument with Harry.

"People ain't always who we think they is."

Hazel's words bounce around in Boo's head in a sick twist of irony.

She's wrong about Harry. She has to be.

So desperately she wants to believe his uncertainty is driven by fear more than doubt in her as a person. Out of everyone to look at her like she's a feral creature, Harry looking at her in that same hurtful way hits the hardest. He's the last person she wants to lump in with the rest of Jack Creek; besides Martha and Russell, Harry had been one in a small handful to really see Boo for who she is, and yet he'd been so quick to abandon her once things became difficult.

Her skin is crawling; suddenly she can feel his handprints all over, burning their way up her body in the same way he had just a few nights prior. To shake the feeling of his presence, she retreats to the shower and scrubs herself under the hot water until her fingertips are pruny and her skin raw.

In times of great emotional turmoil, like all the times little Boo came home after playing the role of Calum Waters' punching bag, Martha would be there to offer some fortune-cookie piece of comfort. Sometimes it would entail taking twenty minutes sifting through all the terrible details of the day to find one moment of positivity. Other days it was Boo moping over a bowl of half-melted ice cream while Martha grumbled under her breath about it being illegal to fight children.

But time is playing thief more than usual lately. The further she drifts from Martha's fateful last night alive, the harder Boo finds it to keep her memory intact. Her grandmother was beginning to fade into that safe little subconscious corner of her mind where Russell also resided; barely thought about, but still there unwavering. And now, as she sits curled up naked on the shower floor, trying to find solace in the way the hot water pounds down against her reddened skin, Boo knows she would give just about anything to have one more night of comfort from Martha.

« • »

While Martha's physical memory may be getting harder to hold onto, her can-do attitude and headstrong spirit continue to flourish within Boo. The next morning, she wakes up feeling refreshed and ready to continue her search for answers. She was prepared to do this alone to begin with, so it shouldn't be that hard to push on without Harry.

An hour later, dressed in her nicest outfit, Boo knocks on the door of the house to the left of Hazel's. In her purse is a tape recorder, already running and set to record every conversation she has. A middle-aged man answers after a few moments, scratching his rounded beer belly with one hand while giving Boo a cautious once-over.

"Can I help you?" he finally asks after an awkward pause.

"Hello, my name is Ellen and I'm an intern with the Jack Creek Inquirer," Boo lies in her fakest customer-service voice. "Do you have a few spare minutes?"

The neighbor nods his head at Hazel's house. "Is this because of what happened?"

Boo nods. "It's just a couple questions, if you don't mind."

He leans up against his doorway, pulling the door slightly closed behind him as his gaze rakes up and down Boo once more. She doesn't like how his eyes linger a little too long on the collar of her blouse, but she doesn't have time to be creeped out. She's on a mission for answers.

"Yeah, I got time."

"Were you the neighbor who called the police?"

His eyebrows knit. "No, I don't know who called. Or why they were calling so early."

Boo pretends to scribble down some notes. "How often did you speak to Ms. Commons?"

"I didn't," the neighbor shrugs. "She barely left the house."

"Would you say she was a punctual person?" Boo asks, studying the man's reaction. "Did she seem to follow any set routines or schedules?"

He grimaces dubiously. "Not that I noticed. But then again I hardly ever saw her."

"Did she have any visitors in the days before her death?" Her heart begins to flutter nervously as she thinks back on what Harry suggested-maybe someone besides Hazel's neighbors had been keeping an eye on the house.

The neighbor rubs his chin. Boo notices some sweat starting to bead on his forehead from the unrelenting summer heat. "Now that you mention it, there was one person I noticed. It was the day before she passed."

"Just one person?" Boo asks, trying not to sound as intrigued as she is. The neighbor nods. "And you're sure it was the day before she died?"

He nods decisively again. "Yeah, I remember because I had just bought some vinyls from my buddy and I was on my way back from his store when I drove by and saw the guy on her porch. They were talking through the screen door. Couldn't tell what about, though."

"What did he look like?"

The neighbor frowns slightly. "I already told all this to the police captain, can't you just ask him?"

"Um," Boo says, thinking quickly. "We-we had to interview the neighbors firsthand, otherwise how else are we supposed to get everyone's photo for the paper?"

His face visibly brightens. "I get my photo in the paper?"

"Sure do," she agrees weakly. "Now describe her visitor."

"Tall guy, short brown or black hair, didn't see his face," the neighbor prattles off hurriedly. His arms fall to his side and he turns a bit, revealing the true circumference of his burly figure. He flashes her a sweaty grin and says, "Make sure you get my good side."

« • »

Boo interviews the entirety of Hazel's closest neighbors, asking the same general questions. The consensus is too similar: no one claims to be the neighbor who reported her death, nor does anyone recognize the visitor from her porch.

Boo's everything is racing as she returns to her car. The thrum of sprinklers turning on in unison accompanies the steady pulsing in her ears as she tries to wrap her brain around the information she's collected.

None of Hazel's neighbors called nine-one-one. Either someone here is lying, or Nathaniel lied on television.

There stands to be no plausible reason that any of Hazel's neighbors would feel compelled to lie to Boo, especially while under the impression their statement would make it into the paper. Nathaniel, on the other hand, reeks of deceit. Out of the multitude of motivations that could be driving him to lie, Boo's mind keeps circling back to the same conclusion.

Nathaniel lied about the caller because he was the one who called.

Tabitha rumbles to life beneath the soles of her heels. Boo pulls away from the curb, her movements robotic as she slowly rolls to the end of the street but doesn't turn. The skin of her knuckles begins to blossom white as she grips the wheel for dear life.

The only reason Nathaniel would've called was if he was at Hazel's house when she died-he would only be at her house if he was responsible for her death.

Unbridled fear takes hold as Boo's realization sinks in. She briefly thinks back to the photo of Nathaniel displayed on the news segment after he confirmed Hazel's death. His eyes were empty and his expression void of emotion. She's been on the receiving end of that cold stare countless times; it was one of silent hatred, a thin veil to mask the beast within.

She knows the extent of his unabated rage-he practically admitted his hand in Damien's disappearance on the tape Martha left behind. After years of allowing his anger to both fuel him and rot him from the inside, Nathaniel Waters is little more than a hollow shell now, fueled by a fire that knows no morals and no boundaries. There's no doubt in Boo's mind anymore. She won't allow Hazel to become another dusty file forgotten in a locked cabinet.

Hazel knew something groundbreaking enough for Nathaniel to kill her and make it look like an accident.

« • »

Boo returns to an empty house. The air inside is eerily cold despite the swelling humidity outside. Her legs feel shaky as she steps over the front threshold and pushes the door shut behind her. The drive home from Hazel's was short-lived, but she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

She desperately wants to call Harry and tell him the conclusion she's come to, but then she remembers their last conversation and his refusal to trek further into the mystery. If she told him she interviewed Hazel's neighbors and was fully convinced that Nathaniel played a hand in her death, he'd probably laugh in her face.

Fighting her lingering discouragement, she traipses into the kitchen and begins absently rummaging through the fridge while her mind runs circles through the most confusing part of those interviews. Who was Hazel's other visitor? What did he and Hazel talk about?

It couldn't have been Nathaniel, his presence is a staple in the town. People would've recalled their police captain showing up on the doorstep of a dead woman.

Boo chews thoughtfully on the half-eaten sandwich in her hands. The official announcement from the police department stated that Hazel died of a heart attack, but there was no mention of an autopsy being performed. A town as short on resources as Jack Creek can't exactly afford to be ordering autopsies left and right for deaths that appear normal. The coroner is a wheat farmer, for Christ's sake.

Two things enter Boo's head as she plops onto her couch, still chewing mundanely.

Firstly, she desperately needs to hear that nine-one-one call. She has to be sure that none of Hazel's neighbors are the anonymous caller. Not to mention hearing the voice would tell her whether or not it was actually Nathaniel who called.

Secondly, she's going to have to do a little research.

« • »

Across town, seated at his desk while absently chewing on the cap of a pen, Nathaniel Waters pores over the pile of papers on his desk. His mind is anywhere except the cases spread out before him: elderly Miss Kathy Lane complaining about her neighbor's tree crossing the property line, an unarmed robbery from one of two gas stations in town, and a bevvy of arrest warrants just waiting for a signature.

As if time is on his side, his phone rings and he's allotted a distraction from work.

"Hello?" he says gruffly.

"Captain Waters, your grandson is out at the front desk, he's requesting to see you."

Ah yes, Calum. The only spot of sunshine Nathaniel allows himself to enjoy. He hangs up without a goodbye and in seconds is out of his office, marching across the department hall while his beady eyes sweep through the sea of desks. He spots Calum waving for his attention and within moments, Calum is gripping his granddad in a tight hug.

"Hey, old man, how are you?" Calum grins.

"What are you doing here, boy?" Nathaniel replies, characteristically bypassing any form of greeting.

"Mom asked me to drop off some dinner for you. Hope you feel like steak and potatoes."

They chat for a few moments longer, Nathaniel's calloused hands wrapped tightly around a warm tupperware container filled to the brim with his dinner, before Calum says goodbye and waltzes out of the station. Nathaniel briefly watches him leave before turning his back on whatever mayhem he knows Calum is off to cause.

He's gone from his desk for a maximum of two minutes. When he returns-not without slamming the door theatrically behind him-he resolves to call his daughter and say thank you. His hand dips into his pocket to fish out his phone but, to his surprise, instead comes into contact with a small square of paper. Without thinking, he pulls out the paper and unfolds it.

Careful, spider-your web is coming undone.

An angry fist crushes the note into nothing more than a crumpled ball. Eyes ablaze, he tears out of his office and into the main department, startling several officers into silence as he stomps through the room.

"Which one of you cowards wants to own up to this?" he bellows, positively shaking as he pelts the crumpled note across the room. Dozens of pairs of eyes flit down to the carpeted floor, all unwilling to meet his lethal gaze. Dissatisfied with the lack of answers, Nathaniel storms outside, leaving a trail of black clouds and violent thunder in his wake.

Outside the precinct, tacked to a telephone pole, is a worn poster announcing the forty-fifth anniversary of Damien Burkwell's disappearance. Nathaniel ambles closer, gritting his teeth as the beast inside huffs in anger. Hooves stamp on the ground, pawing lines into the dirt and signaling the approach of the bull. A breeze passes through the parking lot, shaking Damien's poster the way the matador brandishes the red muleta. Clouds pass over the evening sun and in a moment's time, Damien's poster is ripped from the weathered wood and thrown into the nearest trash can.

hello my little detectives! i'm sorry i've kept you all waiting so long. big, biiig things are happening in my life (i promise i'll update you all on it soon enough, if you care to know lol) and so wattpad had to take a backseat for a while. never fear though, i'll be around a lot more in the upcoming weeks because of *drumroll* . . . SPOOKY WEEK! i've posted a new book with all the guidelines if you're interested in joining this year! i really hope you do!

enjoy this update for now, more to come soon x