[warning: chapter contains language and mentions of suicide that might not be fitting for some readers.]
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"It looked like suicide," the police officer says, "the apartment was undisturbed, and there were no signs of struggle."
"Suicide?" You scoff. "Then why was there a fucking hole in his hand?"
"You said it yourself, you didn't even notice he was dead when you came home." The officer sighs, tapping his clipboard. "Has your brother had any past relations to self-harm?"
You clench your fists, the walls of the police station swirling. Images of Hiroto's carved-out palm flash through your mind. Surely he wouldn't do that to himself.
Right?
"No, not that I know of," you reply, your ankle throbbing. You should probably get it checked out, not to mention the fact that you feel like you're going to throw up at any second.
"The autopsy should be almost done," the officer says, his voice void of any concern, "we'll have the results in about an hour. You can wait here if you'd like."
You glare at him, then turn around and go to the lobby. Chairs are lined up against the wall, and the room smells like sweat. You take a seat far away from the commotion of the others waiting for who-knows-what.
You put your head in your hands.
Hiroto is dead. Your brother is dead.
Why? How? When? Was he really dead the whole time you were home? All throughout the night, and you didn't even realize?
Surely it wasn't suicide. Maybe it wasn't suicide. Right?
Hiroto seemed normal; he didn't act any less happy than he usually is. was. But then again, you were always at work. He could've easily been acting different. Did you just not notice?
You suppress your tears. You can't cry here, not in public. Your eyes already hurt from the way over.
And just like that, it's been an hour, and the same police officer is back, this time with documents and pictures in his hand. He looks them over, his eyes scanning the pages. For a second you see a hint of surprise wash over his face, but it's gone in an instant.
"Suicide," he sighs, "he died due to overdose."
You grab the papers from the officer, your heart dropping at the picture of your brother's dead body. Pictures of his hands. A picture of a tattoo right over his heart: a black diamond with an X over it.
"That's not . . . " You gasp. "Hiroto has never had that tattoo before. When did he . . . ? "
The officer seems unaffected, but your breath catches in your throat when you continue reading the documents.
Cause of death: overdose // suicide
No signs of struggle. Wound on hand most likely related to self harm. Will require more input.
Approximated time of death: 6:45 p.m.
"But I was texting him at ten," you whisper, your hands starting to shake. You clearly remember the text he sent you, telling you to stay safe. But they couldn't possibly get the time of death that wrong. That's more than 3 hours off.
Unless they're right about his time of death.
Which means someone else was in your apartment, after Hiroto died. Someone had your brother's phone, and decided to text you, for whatever reason.
Your eyes linger on the black and white photo of Hiroto's lifeless eyes, wide in panic.
You refuse to believe he killed himself.
You stand up, shoving the papers back at the officer. He sighs. "I know this is hard, but we still need to interview you for--"
"My brother did not commit suicide," you growl, "and I refuse to end this case until you figure out what the hell happened to him. You think he carved out his own hand? You think he was the one to text me, even hours after he died?"
"He texted you?" The officer questions, tilting his head. "At what time?"
The officer quickly pulls out his clipboard and pen, ready to write down your response.
"I was working late and was heading home," you say, "I texted him and told him to make sure to eat, and later he replied, saying I needed to stay safe. It was around ten p.m."
The officer scrawls down the information, looking up at you. "Could you show me the texts?"
"My phone is broken," you say. It's not a complete lie; it probably broke when you fell from the window. The officer lifts an eyebrow.
"And what happened to your ankle?"
You suck in a breath, avoiding his eyes. "I fell." Again, not a complete lie, but he can't know you broke into a hospital.
He puts a hand on your shoulder, looking you in the eyes. "I'm trained to notice things like this. You've been wincing a lot this whole time, not to mention how much you're sweating."
You jerk away from his touch, eyes glancing around the room. "I-I'm fine. Don't touch me."
The officer's eyes widen. "I'm sorry. But if you could just come with me--"
"I didn't kill him!" You say, seething. You can tell that's what the officer is thinking. "I didn't fucking kill my own brother!"
You know you're not helping your case by acting so hostile, but you can't help it. This piled on top of grief and guilt is really making you feel like you want to punch someone.
Before the police officer can respond, you leave the building, going as fast as you can go with your ankle like it is. He shouts after you, but you don't look back, instead you head to the alley to retrieve your phone.
You'll get the proof.
Hiroto didn't commit suicide. You didn't kill him, either.
Your brother was murdered, and they're not going to get away with it.
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