Can't breathe. There's a knock at the door.

Followed by dad's heavy, slow footsteps, a few seconds pass before he opens it.

Low, hushed voices echo from downstairs. After a few moments, I hear his voice.  He sounds hurt, and sad, very sad.

"Nicolas? There's some people here to talk to you." He yells from the bottom of the stairs, his voice raw.

Grunting in response, I lift my head from the pillow, drenched in my tears before staring up at the ceiling. It's only been a few hours since I found mum's body, and yet it felt like two seconds. The icy coldness of her touch, her empty hollow eyes that stared up at the ceiling.

Rolling out of bed for the first time in hours, I tread to the bathroom and stare at the hollow face in the mirror. His damp eyes stare back at me, shadows lining like crescents underneath his eyes, cheeks sunken. Apart from the loss of my mother, weight seemed to drop off of me as well. Turning on the tap, I cup a handful of cold water in my hands and splash it on my face letting the coldness sink in, waking me up. After brushing my teeth, I throw on some clean clothes before walking downstairs.

Rounding the corner, two unfamiliar faces greet me. A male and female that both wore police uniforms, a golden badge pinned proudly on their chests.

The male officer stands, and I have to crane my neck upwards to get a good look at his six foot four figure. He thrusts out his large hand in my direction. "Sergeant Holland," He clears his throat, eyes soft. "How are you son?"

Before I can reply, the lady stands, scraping her chair back in the process and offers me a closed mouth smile. Her blonde hair was tied back in a tight ponytail. "Officer Briggs".

Shaking their hands, I mumble a quiet 'hello' before we stand in the dining room awkwardly. Not knowing what to do next. The sound of dad in the kitchen, making tea fills the awkward silence only momentarily.

Holland offers me a seat and I accept silently.

"So," He begins laying his massive hands on the table, tracing the smooth circles. "Your friends told me to pass on their love and greetings."  I think of Jack and Tom, each of them, dressed in black.

I nod and let my eyes wander around the walls I know so well, landing on a picture of mum and I standing knee deep in the sea of the coast of the Caribbean, her skin almost orange from the sun. Feeling my throat tighten, I look away and blink rapidly. "Um, thanks."

Dad appears at the doorway attempting to carefully balance a tray of cookies in one hand and a teapot in the other. If I thought that I looked like a mess, then dad was clearly dragged from the depths of hell. His hair was knotted and twisted, his locks overgrown till they resembled dreads. Reddish rims encircled his exhausted and glazed eyes and lines had formed along his pinched mouth. His clothes hung loose on him, trousers held in place by a belt that stopped fitting him a year ago.  Mum had never approved of that belt.  She hated it. 

"Thank you." Briggs says while helping him arrange the cups.

After a moment or two of filling the cups and nibbling on the cookies, the detective puts his drink down on the coffee table and pulls out a notepad just as dad settled himself beside me, close.

"I know this doesn't seem like the right time.", Holland says.  He begins and flips a small notepad open. "But, I'm going to have to ask you some questions."

"It really is going to help us with the investigation Nicolas." Briggs chips in before taking a greedy bite of her cookie, crumbs pepper her fingers and the corners of her mouth..

"Can you start from the beginning?", Holland asks.

"Beginning?"

I was surprised at how raw my voice sounded.  Full of emotion and hurt.  It was as if an inner voice was crying out for someone to listen. 

He nods, "Yes from the moment you walked in through the gate."

Reaching my hand up to twist my hair, the comforting action calming me.  Mum used to do that when I was younger, I remember.  I exhale lightly, remembering. "Okay so I walked in through the front gate..."

"What time was this?", he interrupts.

"Six.... six fifteen?", I say uncertain.

Briggs removed a slim metallic pen and clicked it, scribbling down the time. "Okay, did you notice anything weird from the outside?", Holland asks.

"The outside?" 

"Yes", he affirms.

"Well... I don't think so, there wasn't anything suspicious.", I admit. 

"Um, no nothing."

"Ok.. what about the inside?", he asks.

"There was a broken case at the front door, and it looked like the house was abandoned".

He nods at me, jotting it down, his handwriting a scrawl.

"Where is that vase now", Holland inquires.

"It's in a plastic bag in the kitchen", Dad says, speaking for the first time.

"We're going to need that Mr Smith", Briggs says.

Dad just nods.  I remember that vase, I bought it for mum for her birthday last year, I remember her kissing me on the cheek and hugging me tightly when I gave it to her.  I put my hand up to my face.

"Did you see anyone in the house, or even hear anyone Nicolas?", he inquires.

"No, I didn't see anyone, and the house was really quiet", I reply.

"When you came home, did you close the gate", Holland asks.

"No I left it open...".

"Why", I ask, confused at how it was relevant.

"Well if the gate was closed, he or she, must have opened the gate, so we could possibly get fingerprints off that", he explained.

I look down at my feet.

He nods, "And, where did you find," He pauses and suddenly the temperature drops. "Your mum?"

My throat constricts and I can feel the back of my eyes burn. Swallowing a lump, I exhale shakily. "S-she w-was in t-the living room."

"Nicolas, it's not your fault, Ok.."

A tear find its way down my cheek. The detectives clear their throats before shutting the pad. "Okay, it was great meeting you both." Standing, they walked to the door, leaving me sitting where I was, crying silently. After a few minutes, I drag myself back upstairs feeling exhausted.

I wake up to the sound of a TV blaring downstairs. The news is on. We never watch the news in our house. Gingerly I walk down the stairs, taking care to avoid the third step from the bottom which is creaky. In the room is dad, preparing breakfast. I glance at the TV, then there's a bad feeling deep inside me.

The headline on the News: Mother Killed In Mystery Murder. I turn it off. Dad doesn't say anything. As I eat my milk drowned cornflakes, dad speaks for the first time in two days, "Son, they will find them, you know that don't you?"

"I know" I say, not really believing it.

Later that day the police gave an official statement, Sergeant Holland's voice blasts through the speakers, saying "We are working round the clock and an investigation has now been launched". After school, I find the forensic team, dressed in white clothes and gloves, doing swabs of the carpet and the furniture in the living room. A room that had stayed locked for two days straight.

At 8 pm we get the all clear. Shortly after Sergeant Holland informs us that a Post-Mortem had been carried out. Silence fills the room. The officer again affirms that they are working as hard as they can. We thank him and then he lets himself out. We both sit there for a while and then go to bed.

My relationship with my father has changed drastically since my mother's passing. When I was seven he pulled a prank at Halloween. But this was no harmless prank. He dangled me from the balcony, I was petrified. Mom and dad were never the same after that.

Their relationship was already rocky looking back, but that event certainly didn't help things. Dad found that mom was having an affair with another guy. In short, there was a BIG argument, threats of divorce and an Avengers Civil War style family conflict with extended family picking sides. But gradually everything settled down and life returned to normal, well mainly. Now that mum was gone, we had to stick together, forget about the past and focus on the here and now.

I went round to Tom's, who lived a few blocks down to hang out and talk. We ended up playing Fifa on his Playstation. I won. Tom always wins at Fifa. We did a quick writing session, ideas pulsating out of both of us in quick succession.

Time flew by and soon it was pitch black and darkness crept outside the windows. I told him I had to go and so we exchanged a quick fist pump and then I left. When I got home, I found my dad sleeping, clutching a picture of mum tightly to his chest.  I quietly made my way up to my room and fell asleep.

TWO DAYS LATER

I'm at Jack's. We're hanging out after school. He's playing GTA. I'm on my phone. Twenty-One pilots play in the background there are piles of books over his bed and a pair of headphones sitting beside a closed laptop screen. On his desk is a notebook. I make sure he's at the toilet and then I open it, careful not to make it appear disturbed.

It's full of names, Cathy, Frances, Ruth, Jackson, Hailie, Tom, Nicolas, and in fresh, neat handwriting, Carrol Smith. Mum. A single horizontal line crosses out her name. What the heck is this book?  My heart stops, and suddenly a wave of rage fills me.  I clench my wrists until my knuckles are white.

Suddenly there's movement in the bathroom. I scramble to return the book to its original position and get back on my phone. This is weird. Very weird.

I woke up early, got up and got dressed. At 8:15 I left the house. I walk to school, taking in the scenery as I go. When I arrive I see; Jackson with his gang mates, Jemma with her friends Cathy and Harriet, and Tom and Jack waiting for me.

When Jackson sees me he calls "where did mommy go". I continue to walk along the path, pretending I haven't heard him.  I get blank stares in my direction for my troubles. 

He repeats it again, this time saying "Where did mommy go Nicholas?, probably killed herself".  A silence fills the playground.  I tell Jackson to shut up, I'm about to go over to him myself,  but then Tom and Jack are on him.  Jack hits him in the stomach, winding him and Tom holds him down.  I kick him between his legs and I mutter in his ear, "Don't you dare talk about her like that".

"She deserves it", Jackson coughs painfully.

But Jemma has heard it and walks over to Jackson.

"What did you say?" she challenges, an expression of pure fury on her face.

Jackson looks uncertain of himself, then after a silence that feels like an eternity, he says in a voice full of spite "nothing".

"Good" Jemma says. She nods in my direction and leaves the playground.

"What a jerk" Jack says, getting off Jackson

Maybe that's why he's on your hit list, I think. But instead, I say "I always hated him".

"Everyone does" Tom agrees.

We walk away, as cheers erupt in the playground.  The principal comes out into the courtyard and the cheering stops.  For a moment I think he is going over to me, but he walks straight past us, closing in on Jackson.

"Jackson, my office, now!".

Jackson looks down at the ground, glaring at us as he passes. 

I did not hear from Jackson again that day. 

SIX O'CLOCK

Tonight on BBC News, the investigation into the death of Carrol Smith has been suspended after no evidence was found pointing to any criminal party being involved. Today Mrs. Smith's family gave a statement: we are shocked by the actions of the police service of the United Kingdom, we strongly believe that we can find the person who did this to our family, if anyone has any information, we urge you to contact the police immediately. Thank you. 

Dad and I stared at the television hugging each other tightly, our eyes both full of tears.