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I thought about taking the letter to the police. So far, there hadn't been any advancements in their investigation—or, if there were, they hadn't released any information. Yet there I was, holding a vital piece of evidence and withholding it from the authorities.

I should hand it in.

But the thought of giving up the letter made my stomach churn in protest. Would I find a threat in my car the next morning? Would another letter turn up in my mailbox a week later? The part of me consumed by rage desperately needed an outlet. I needed someone to direct my hatred towards and this was the perfect opportunity.

Striking up your own investigation would do more bad than good.

I groaned internally, tired with the constant battle in my head. After a week of reading and re-reading, I had gotten nowhere. It was like I was trapped in this never-ending moment, where progress seemed to be non-existent. The letter explained that there were clues that suggested where the next would be found. But there were no signs of riddles or poems or anything remotely triggering. The more I read it, the less it made any sense.

Perhaps I wasn't cut out to be a detective. I took it as a sign to surrender the letter. If I couldn't figure out anything by the end of the day, I'd hand it over.

"Are you hungry?"

I looked up from the letter to see Cass standing at my door, holding a tray of food. Although I was graduated and perfectly capable of making my own lunch, she felt the need to baby me. I supposed it was just her older sister instincts kicking in and her unhealthy urge to keep busy under tender circumstances, but I would have felt a lot more comfortable if she had just gone back to university and focused on her studies. I enjoyed having her around, but I didn't like the reasons why she was visiting.

I shrugged and she entered, placing the tray on my study desk. "Thanks."

"What are you working on?" she asked, nodding at the piece of creased paper in front of me. "I thought school was officially over."

I reached out and grabbed it, folding it lazily. "Just doing some reading," I answered, shoving it between a couple of books. I had never been much of a reader, but it was the only excuse I could think of that included the paper. I hoped she wouldn't catch my lie.

"Your eulogy?" she asked timidly as if the remembrance of my breakdown at Colton's funeral would ignite another.

Her lie was much more believable, so I agreed. "Yeah."

"You really should apologise to the Crests," Cass continued, placing her hands in her pockets and rocking back on her heels. "Walking out in the middle of the service wasn't one of your greatest points."

"I know."

Cass dropped onto the edge of my bed and crossed her legs, nervously tucking a piece of hair away from her face. Her posture was impeccably perfect; back aligned straight, neck poised. That only meant one thing: she had news—and nothing particularly good.

"What?" I asked, spinning around in my desk chair to face her.

She shifted uncomfortably.

"Cass?" I prodded. "What is it?"

Eventually, my sister looked down at her hands and said, "Mum's coming."


"She's on the next flight out," she explained, chewing her lip.

The divorce happened before I could remember. Cass said she remembered getting pulled out of preschool, but that's about it. According to my father, the divorce wasn't based on anything dramatic, like cheating. My parents had simply lost their spark of affection and agreed that it would be the best for them to go their separate ways. I thought it was one-sided though because Dad hadn't dated since then and my mum had since remarried and had an additional three kids.

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