Phantom [h.s]

Forty

"What college does your sister go to?"

"MIT. She wants to be an engineer."

"Was your mom at the party?"

"Yeah. That party was the least stressed I had seen her in a long time."

"When did she find out about Harry?"

"She got the call about a missing person Monday morning, so that would've been the tenth, I think."

"How long was Harry a missing person?"

"About a month and a half. After that, they assumed he was dead."

"Why so soon?"

"Well, before it became a cold case, his case was always a missing person case. Everyone began to assume he was dead after awhile, though, and then the case was shut down, and they had a funeral type thing for him before his parents moved. Then they found his body a few weeks ago...and it became a proper murder case."

"So no one truly knew he was dead until a few weeks ago when his body was found."

"Right. Everyone had just kind of assumed. A character like Harry wouldn't just run away or something. There was always the possibility that he was kidnapped, but he was clearly around other people the night he died and that wouldn't have made much sense. The town just kind of began accepting the fact that he was probably dead. And then his body was found, and it was the cherry on top."

The waitress comes by to take our orders. I order coffee and Ian gets some French fries.

"So you're telling me you were at your house partying with your sister the entire night of the eighth," I say.

"You don't believe me?"

"I don't know what to believe."

Ian half smiles. "My mother told me about the thing with the mirror repair shop. I didn't bring in that mirror."

"Who would, though? And use your name?"

"How should I know? I didn't know any of Harry's friends that well."

"You're the son of the detective," I say, leaning forward. "You know how easy it was for them to pin this on you? Bring in the mirror under your name to make it seem like you're the killer, and when your mother clears your name it could seem like she's just covering for her son?"

"So you think I killed him," he says. "You think I did bring in that mirror."

"Clearly you didn't, since the description of the person that did bring it in doesn't match up to you," I say. "I'm just saying how easy it was for you to be framed."

Ian furrows his brow as the waitress brings our food. I rip open a packet of sugar and dump it in my coffee, watching Ian carefully.

"You're right," he says. "It was easy for them to frame me. But who?"

I shake my head. "I wish I could tell you. But I'm still not sure."

Ian reaches for the ketchup. "It wasn't me. I wouldn't kill him. I wouldn't have a motive."

"What about your mother's attachment to him? You told me once he was like another son to her."

"He was," Ian says, nodding. "But I wasn't jealous of him. My mother's never been one to show much affection, anyway. I wouldn't have killed him because of that."

I stare at Ian. I want to believe him, but I need to be careful.

"What's your sister's name?" I ask.