A week has passed since Ness’s funeral. Unfortunately for me, time still drifts forward, and I still have a paycheck that needs to be earned in order to pay bills. My boss, Myrill, had been nice enough to give me the week to recuperate, but that wasn’t much help. Not when the most important person in my life was no longer there to sooth the ache.

Steps drag along shag carpet as I walk to the bathroom and look in the mirror. Only now am I realizing how terrible I look. My usual vibrant hazel eyes have no light in them, dull as red encroaches upon the edges of my irises. There’s a significant amount of aggravated skin beneath them, bulging and scratchier than all hell. Up top, a tangled mess of brunette hair stuck up in so many directions I can’t decide where to start untangling. Freckles that usually didn’t show up against my olive complexion are now visible against pale skin. Jesus.

I splash crisp, cold water in my face, clearing the salted debris left from a pail’s worth of tears. I’d honestly still be crying if I hadn’t run out two days ago. Despite my eyes feeling better, my chest still aches as my heart remains broken.

Pulling out my toothbrush, I make short work of cleaning my teeth before heading downstairs, feeling about as good as I’m going to. The silence as I pass through the foyer into the kitchen is oppressive as it attempts to stop me in my tracks. It nearly does so as I’m overcome with another bout of grief.

I’ve gotten better at dismissing it, even if not completely.

Aggravation settles as a best friend, my tongue clicking against the back of my teeth as I look into a nearly-empty container of Folgers. A heaved sigh of knowing how weak this is going to be and I empty what’s left into a waiting filter. I find distraction in doing the dishes as the coffee slowly drips its precious dark gold, and it’s finished when my Pop Tart nearly ejects itself out of the toaster. It’s rather comical, if only the pain of not being able to tell Ness about it didn’t sting so bad.

I grab my favorite mug and pour the depressingly watery coffee into my favorite mug—one that says Only losers drink tea, obviously a gift from Ness—and set my lips at the rim. I don’t even get a sip in before there’s a knock at the door. I briefly look at the sickly clear liquid swirling in the cup before setting it down with a groan of annoyance. I might not have liked the coffee, but I was looking forward to getting something warm into my system.

Upon arriving at the door and looking through the peephole, I find my lips twisting into a disgusted scowl. I can clearly insinuate what the man on the other side of the door wants, what with his badge and the holstered gun at his side. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

“What do you want?” I snap against the closed door. “Her funeral’s already over and done with. I told you everthing I knew. Fuck, you even got your guy! What more do you want from me!?” My breathing grows rapid and I can feel the sensation of tears building, even though I know they aren’t really there.

“Shilo, sweetie?”

Oh, that was not the voice I expected. Heaving a painful sigh, I crack the door to see my mother standing with the stranger I’d initially seen. There’s an air of understanding in his acorn-colored eyes, a note of sorrow that soften his otherwise sharp facial features as he watches me hesitate in completely opening the door. He’s fucking gorgeous; strong jawline hedged with rough stubble. Strawberry blonde hair gleaming a soft peach in the morning light in a comb-back that suits him rather well. His tan complexion is another checkbox marked in my list of desires in a man, but his officer garb and the detective ID that he’s holding are a complete turnoff.

“Shilo, sweetie.”

Despite knowing she was there, her voice still makes me jump as I notice her standing beside him. She’s wearing her favorite green dress that barely kisses the leaf-littered ground, a multitude of little white blossoms decorating the pattern. A soft white shawl shields her shoulders from the mild chill in the air, though I worry that’s not nearly enough to keep her warm.

“Sweetie,” she starts, her voice slightly breaking, “this is Detective Hall. He…he believes there’s something…more to your sister’s murder. He doesn’t think the man behind bars is the real culprit.” Her lips quiver as she fights to remain composed. Or maybe I was right and she’s growing cold.

Despite that, my brows furrow in rage. “The guy was covered in her blood! What part of that speaks of innocence?!” I shout, the ache in my chest growing more painful before all my anger disappears at once in a heavy sigh of exhaustion. I can’t do this anymore. I just…can’t. “There’s nothing more. I’m sorry ma, but you need to leave now.”

Tears slip from the corners of her eyes as my response finally breaks her composure. I feel guilted weight settle on my shoulders, though I shrug it off. I’m not about to answer more questions about Ness’s death. I’m not going to try and solve a riddle already solved. I wasn’t going to revisit the memories of the pictures showing her caved in skull and bruised body. It’ll break me more than I already am.

“Please, Mr. Santos. I just have a few things I’d like to show you,” Detective Hall says, gently keeping the door from being shut.

I grunt, agitated but unable to show much of anything else in my current state. “ I’m sorry detective but I told you, I don’t want to answer anymore fucking ques—” I pause, looking back up to him, his words registering. “Wait, show me?”

He nods. “Yes. Just a few quick minutes of your time, please. And Nathan’s fine. I’m not really in to formalities.”

My curiosity forces my arm to shove the door the rest of the way open as my mother and Nathan let themselves in.

“Do you have a DVD player?” he asks, following me into the small living room.

I point to the corner where a player sits beneath the television on its stand. Meanwhile, my mind tries desperately to piece together what this man has to show me. The police, the detectives, the coroners. They all wanted information from me that I simply didn’t have. Questions were thrown like daggers and my soul seemed to fracture at the sensation of every one colliding with my psyche. But, this ‘Nathan’ man has, instead, brought something for me. Something I desperately hope will give me some kind of closure, though a fraction of my heart shudders with fear that it won’t.

“May I?” he respectfully asks, gesturing to the player.

Unable to really speak, I nod as I take a seat on the worn leather couch, my mother having already found her place. She collects me in her arms, her weird flowery perfume and warmth comforting to my frazzled little brain and my shattered heart.

“Nathan found more information about Ness’s death. He thinks that…maybe the wrong person was incriminated.”

A jolt runs through my body, but I remain silent, not daring to raise my voice against her. Her brother, my Uncle Brian, had been wrongfully incriminated a few years before I was born and new evidence released him only five years ago. He’s a kind man, good in all the ways one could be yet he spent his twenties, thirties, and part of his forties in prison before he was set free. If my mother believed anyone was innocent, regardless of their charge, she would pursue it.

Even in the case of my dead sister.

Nathan slips in a disk and plays the video. I instantly recognize it as the trial for the assumed murderer, Grant Cunningham. The guy had little to no friends, the only true one he had being my sister. She was particularly kind and warm towards the people no one wanted to be around, going as far as to start her own charity that helped people with mental disorders find there footing in a world where no one cared.

Yet, he had been found kneeling next to her body, covered in her blood with shredded knuckles. Later on, the police had even found evidence on his phone showing he had requested to meet her in the alleyway of the crime scene. It seemed like solid proof to me. What more was needed?

Nathan’s brows, however, furrow as the sentence is delivered. Grant shakes and cries. His eyes are full of fear and confusion. Still, the man doesn’t fight the guards escorting him out of the room nor does he plea for mercy.

“That’s not the demeanor of a guilty man,” Nathan says, his deep voice making me jump. “Not to toot my own horn, but I’m rather adept at reading body language. Took a course in human psychology to pad that ability out for good measure. Every part of that man, from his facial expressions to the way he’s standing, screams confusion and sorrow. Not anger, not disappointment, not guilt.”

A tear drops onto the leather beneath me. I hadn’t even realized I was crying. Nevertheless, I laugh. “So, let me get this straight. You come in here, while I’m still grieving to tell me that, what…you’re reopening my sister’s case on the grounds of a man’s body language?” My tone is incredulous, fury growing like a thorned weed in my throat.

Nathan’s eyes fall to the ground. “No,” he says, firmly. “There’s more. But I can’t say much right now.”

“Bull shit!” I snap, the rage boiling in a second. “Stop fucking around with my family! The perp was caught and, unless you feel like sharing ‘more’ with the class, you should just leave us to grieve in peace, for fuck’s sake!”

Nathan stands stock till, shock written all over his perfect face. Fuck. I hate how hot he is.

An unexpected hand comes from my left and smacks me hard across my cheek. I turn back to see my mother with a similar anger burning in her shimmering eyes.

God. Damn. It.

“Shilo Evan Santos, how dare you speak that way. I did not raise you to speak like that. Next one will knock your teeth out,” she snaps, her body shaking.

The guilt hits harder than her hand. I can feel my expression soften, the tension dissipating from my body.

A whistle from the entrance of the living room stops me from apologizing, the words left to hang on the tip of my tongue. I snap my eyes to the source to see a short, blonde haired kid with stormy gray eyes, watching with a smirk.

“Good parenting, I’ll say.” Him being snarky was the least of my concerns as his outfit bears a striking resemblance to Nathan’s.

I can’t stop myself from retorting dryly, “Who’s the shrimp?”

“Shilo!” my mother hisses.

“It’s okay ma’am. He wasn’t even supposed to come in.” Nathan shoots his partner a glare. He clears his throat. “This is Emery Hueson. He’s been my partner for several years now. I trust him with everything I have.”

“Awe, thanks boo. I trust you, too.”

Despite another glare from Nathan, Shorty’s comment makes my mother laugh. And for that, I am grateful.

“Look, I just wanted to ask if you would lend us your help with the case should the need arise,” Nathan says, retrieving his DVD. “Other than that, we will stay out of your life as much as possible. I promise.” He walks up to me, surprisingly close as his calm acorn gaze captures mine. “Please, help us save an innocent man from a lifetime in prison and bring the guilty one to light.”

I can smell the sharp, but pleasant aroma of his sandalwood cologne.

“Fine,” I say, my body tensing. “I’ll help you. If I can.”

Nathan nods with the gentlest of smiles gracing his lips. “That’s all I ask. Thank you.”

With that, Shorty and his friend with the nice ass left my home, my mother trailing behind them after a brief kiss on the same cheek she smacked.

And I’m left to stand alone again in my empty living room, the silence picking back up its relentless oppression.