I brush the dust off the photo frames with the tip of my finger. There's me and Aster. At four years old at the swings in the park. At seven posing with ice-creams on the beach. We're eleven and in a photo booth. Fourteen and having a picnic with our family. And there's us, three weeks ago in her garden.

Aster had always been there for me, through thick and thin. I pick up the last photo frame, and stare into her eyes. She's smiling, and golden sun rays bounce off her hair and twinkle in her eyes. "Where are you?" I whisper, "Where are you, Ast?"

My phone rings at that very moment, and startled, I put down the frame. Lila. I decline. From our set-up date with Fox, we know she has no security cameras. No evidence of where Aster went. But that doesn't mean the Deramaines weren't involved. In fact, perhaps it means the opposite.

Lila hadn't ever felt like a friend. Yes, she was around, but she was clingy, like a fly in the summer, you just can't brush away. She didn't feel emotionally invested in our friendship, but more like she wanted something out of it. Or maybe a leech. Sucking the blood; greedy and slimy.

I leave Aster behind, and swing my messenger bag over my shoulder. "Mum, I'm going to school!" I call up the stairs, then walk out the door.

When I was younger, Eastmore seemed like my oyster, while Aster and I were the pearls. We'd run around in the sunlight, soaking up the warmth and the bliss. The world was at our feet. Sure, we were hated by some, but we were loved. We didn't have a worry in the world.

But, now, it wasn't just me who felt cold and dark and alone. Maybe I was feeling it worse than others, but there was no doubt that Eastmore felt different. It was sunny, but it felt cold. It felt dark. There were less people in the streets, worried mothers gripped their children's hands tight, not wanting anything to happen to them. Like something happened to Aster.

People shut themselves up, houses no longer seemed to glow and Eastmore wasn't just a small town. It was a tired, old, sleepy town. Too manipulated by fear to come out and live. Like when Aster and I would play hide-and-seek with my older brother. We'd huddle together under the dark of my bed, gripping each other tight in fear as we could see my brother's shoes come into view. He seemed so big and scary then, with his callings, "Come out, come out, where ever you are!" But the fear would  melt when he'd find us. Hugs and tickles and bursts of giggles. But this time, the fear was real. Someone was out there, and when they found us there wouldn't be tickling. Instead, there could be kidnapping, death and murder.

***

Miss Kayne's shiny stilettos clicked as she walked across the polished floor. She usually had an amazing ability to shout and roar like a hungry lion. It suited her, with her tightly pulled back dark bun and thick angled eyebrows. She was thin and straight up and now like a needle. And just as pointy.

Today, however, and since the start of term and the disappearance of Aster Evans, she was mellow, and soft. Her words seemed scratchy and hollow, they echoed across the room like a question rather than a solid point. She looked gaunt and tired, and almost slouched a little.

"I want you to write a commemorative piece about Aster." she says, her voice almost like a whisper. "I know that all that's on our minds at the moment."

I try to write. Something nice. Something about her laugh, or her smile, or the way her eyes sparkled. Something about her personality or mystery. Something about my memories of her. But they're all broken.

They're all darkened and plagued, contaminated with the knowledge she's gone, and I may never see her again.

So instead, I sit. And I stare. At the bleak nothingness of the too-beige classroom.

***

Midnight swings her feet on top of The East's solitary desk, dark, wooden and antique. Her shoelaces are untied and dangle. "Any new leads?" she asks the three of us.

"No," I sigh. 

There's a loud knock at the door, and Fox, who's leaning near by opens it. "Katherine Jane Roseavelt and Jack Edward Grey?"

It's Sheriff Casterwyre, a middle aged man; balding with age spots on his head, patches of dark brown hair circling his head and sharp blue eyes. He's in uniform, khaki with a star badge.

I step up, gulping, my eyes wide and full of hope. "Have you found her?"

"No, I'm sorry, Miss, but as the best friend and boyfriend of the suspect, I require your assistance down at the station."

We nod, and solemnly follow his lead. Numb, I'm dragged through the school hallways. Numb, we're ushered into a police car. Numb, driving to the station, blue and red lights flashing.

The clouds are dark, they've gathered, drawn together like a drawstring. The sky is ominous. Dark and luring. It's cold, and I shiver, lacking a jumper. Sheriff Casterwyre opens the doors for us. I stare at the black asphalt of the police station parking lot. Marked with white lines like in a matchstick puzzle. A tree grows in the corner, a few cop cars scattered here and there.

We're led inside, it's an old building, brick, antique. Stone archways. Long, grey corridors. Bright lights. Introduced to an intern on the case. Sally Lane, but I don't pay attention. Shiny floors with a pattern like in the hospital. I know this building so well.

Torn away from Fox, head hung, sat in a room. There's glass panels, and from watching my fair share of cop shows, I know someone's behind. Listening to every word I say. Like it's a trap.

Sat at a desk. Lamp too bright. It hurts my eyes. Squinting, Drew takes my hand. "It's going to be okay, Kitty, do you understand? We'll find her."

I look, up, into his eyes. Dark brown, soft, kind. I'm not myself, as I'm flooded with memories. His hands in mine. "Dad?"