Chapter 1 

                 “The start of a new beginning” 

They say memory is unreliable, but I remember everything about that day. 

The way the air smelled, wet pavement and something faintly sweet, like overripe fruit. The way her laugh caught in her throat when she saw the mess we’d made in the kitchen. The mug she was holding chipped at the rim, with faded blue flowers curling around the edge. She always said it was her favourite, even though I had nicer ones. 

People think tragedy comes like thunder, loud and impossible to ignore. But that day came quiet. Like someone's breath fogging glass. 

I didn’t know it would be the last time.  

Of course, they asked me questions. Everyone did. Police. Reporters. Family. They all circled me with their gentle eyes and gentle hands, like I was something breakable. And I let them. I had to. 

Because the truth wouldn’t help anyone now. Not her. Not me. 

And certainly not you. 

“Eleanor Green, are you even listening to anything I’m saying?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Look. I know you were a witness to Isla Thompson’s death, but you need to be more switched on for the interview.” The policewoman stared at me with the same sort of sympathy you’d have when you see a homeless poor sod, sleeping on a thin piece of cardboard in the middle of a cold street in New York. 

 I wanted her to stop, I didn’t want to remember that day, but they just forced it back into my mind like I was some input device. 

 The woman cleared her throat and adjusted the tight bun on the back of her head before speaking again. 

“How close were you to Isla Thompson?” Wasn't I asked this before? 

“We hung out a few times, but we weren’t that close.” 

“For what reason did you go to her house?” I’m sure I’ve been asked that before. 

“I had to give her some homework that she left at mine.” 

“Okay, and did she try calling you at any time?” When will this end? I felt my hands get clammy, and I started noticing little things, a ticking noise in the corner, the growing mold on the wall, the faint smell of coffee coming from the ragged dark blue carpet. The tapping of monitors had gotten louder too. 

“Eleanor?” The policewoman repeated, her hair wasn’t naturally blonde, it blended with the load of makeup she had put on her face to probably to cover the growing wrinkles. 

“Oh... yeah, no.” This interview was getting boring; it’s always the same

questions. The policewoman narrowed her eyes just a little, not enough to be obvious, but enough to remind me that she wasn’t here to hold my hand through this. 

She leaned forward slightly, folding her hands on the scratched metal table between us. I could see the faint reflection of my own face, tired eyes, messy hair, a smudge of something on my cheek that I hadn’t noticed before. Maybe mascara. Maybe dirt. 

“Let’s go back to the moment you arrived at Isla’s house,” she said, her voice slower now, like she was trying to lead me somewhere. “What did you see when you got there?” 

What did I see? 

I saw her door slightly ajar, which wasn’t normal. Isla always locked it. Always. She was paranoid, ever since that time someone followed her home from the train station. I remember thinking it was weird, but I didn’t stop to think it meant anything serious. 

“I saw the door open,” I muttered. “I called out. No one answered.” 

“Did you go inside?” 

I nodded. “Yeah.” 

The pause that followed was heavy. Like she wanted to give me space. Or maybe she was waiting for me to fill in the blanks. 

Her pen clicked, and that sound, that sharp, deliberate click, snapped something in

me. 

“There was this... smell. Like iron. And something else. Like the bleach they use in school bathrooms. But not strong enough to cover everything. I went into the living room, and she was—” 

My throat closed. I looked down at my fingers and realized I’d been picking at the skin around my nails. It was red and raw. 

“She was on the floor,” I said finally. “Her eyes were open.” 

“And what did you do next?” 

I blinked. Everything from that moment was like trying to remember a dream. I think I screamed. Or maybe I didn’t. I remember touching her shoulder, like maybe she’d wake up if I just shook her a little. But she didn’t move. She was so still. Too still. 

“I think I called someone,” I whispered. “I don’t know. It’s all blurred.” 

The policewoman leaned back, tapping her pen against the table now. “We’ve reviewed the call logs. You dialed 911 at 5:42 p.m. You sounded calm.” 

That part always freaked me out. That I sounded calm. Like nothing was wrong. Like I was calling to order pizza or something.  

“She was alive the day before,” I said, mostly to myself. “I saw her. We were in English class together, she asked if I had any gum.” 

“Did anything seem off about her?” 

“Isla always seemed off,” I said, a half-laugh slipping out before I could stop it. “But no... She just seemed like Isla. Distracted, maybe.” 

The policewoman scribbled something down, then paused again. “Eleanor, do you think Isla had any enemies?” 

I opened my mouth to say no, but something stopped me. A flicker of a memory, Isla standing in the hallway, whispering furiously into her phone, her hand clenched around a crumpled piece of paper. She had seen me watching and slammed her locker shut. 

She never told me what it was about. 

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.” 

The silence between us was brittle and sharp. Like if either of us breathed too hard, it would break. 

Finally, the policewoman stood up. “That’s all for today.” 

I nodded numbly, standing too fast and feeling the blood rush from my head. As I stepped out into the hallway, I could still feel the scent of that room clinging to me: coffee, mold, and something metallic that wasn’t there. 

  The door to the police station clicked shut behind me with heavy finality, the cool air outside hit me like I’d stepped into another world. The kind where things were quieter and less demanding. No more questions, for now at least. 

I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and walked down the steps, past

a lad smoking under a flickering streetlamp, past a woman yelling into her phone. 

 London was always humming, always half-awake, but right then it felt like it was whispering, like even the concrete knew something had happened. 

The bus ride was a blur of fogged-up windows and neon signs bleeding into each other. I didn’t look at anyone. I didn’t want to be looked at either. 

When I finally made it back to my building, the keypad at the front door didn’t work on the first try. It never did.  

“Bloody-” I punched in the code again with stiff fingers and pushed the door open hard enough to hear it rattle against the stopper. 

Inside, the hallway smelled like overcooked rice and something vaguely chemical, like the cleaner my upstairs neighbour used religiously. I took the stairs to the third floor, each one creaking under my weight like they resented being used. 

My flat was exactly how I’d left it, small, dim, quiet. A single lamp was still on in the corner, casting a weak yellow glow across the worn couch and the pile of books I kept meaning to return to the library. I dropped my bag by the door and stood for a second, listening.  

Silence. Not the comforting kind. The kind that makes your skin crawl a little. 

I kicked off my shoes and walked over to the kitchen, filling a glass with water from the tap. The pipes groaned. Everything in this building groaned as it was probably over 100 years old. I leaned against the counter and stared at the fridge. 

 Isla’s handwriting was still on the note she’d left me a week ago, the one I’d stuck up with a worn-out magnet shaped like a donut. 

"Bring my notes on ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ next time. I’ll forget. You know I will. x" 

I traced the curve of her writing with my eyes, then looked away. It felt too loud. 

The apartment was colder than usual. I pulled a blanket off the couch and wrapped it around myself as I sank into the cushions. I didn’t turn on the TV. I didn’t want noise, I wanted space. Space to think. Or maybe not to think at all. 

But my mind wouldn’t shut up. 

I kept seeing her face pop up. Open eyes. Pale lips. Her necklace twisted the wrong way around her neck. The thin chain snapped like thread. I should’ve remembered that detail earlier. 

Something about it kept catching in my brain. 

I reached for my phone, but there were no new messages. Just the last one from Isla—sent two days before she died. 

"Can we talk? It’s kinda important." 

I never replied. I was busy. I thought whatever it was could wait. 

I stared at the screen for a long time, then finally typed out a message to no one. 

"I’m sorry." 

Then I turned the phone over and placed it screen-down on the coffee table, like that would stop the guilt from seeping through. 

I didn’t sleep that night. Just lay there on the couch, eyes wide, the hum of the fridge filling the silence, the city outside murmuring in its sleep. Somewhere in the back of my mind, something had started to stir, a question that hadn’t been asked yet. A detail that didn’t fit. 

And I knew, deep down, this wasn’t over. Not even close. 

 The week crawled by, 

each day blurred into the next, cold cereal, silent showers, hours pretending to scroll through my phone while the screen stayed dark. I didn’t go back to school. I told them I needed time, and they didn’t argue.  

Even the police hadn’t followed up again, except for a half-hearted check-in email from someone named Detective Reaves, who was probably that blonde policewoman I had talked to earlier on. I didn’t reply. I couldn’t bring myself too. 

For a while, I started to think maybe that was it. Maybe the worst of it was over. The storm had come, shaken everything up, and now it was moving on.  

I could almost pretend Isla had just... disappeared, like she slipped into some background noise I didn’t have to think about if I turned the volume down far enough. 

People at school kept posting about her, tribute posts on their stories, aesthetic edits of photos I knew they’d filtered to death, shaky captions about how bloody “bright”

and “unforgettable” she was. It all felt fake. I didn’t repost any of it. I couldn’t. It made me feel like I was feeding something ugly. 

By Wednesday, I was coasting. Wake up at noon, eat something microwaved, watch whatever was crap enough to keep my brain quiet. Sleep. Start over. It wasn’t healthy, but it worked. 

Until Friday. 

                               Chapter 2 

                           “Not enough luck” 

The day started like all the others, wet, grey, and heavy. Sod. I left the apartment just to get out for a bit, to breathe air that didn’t smell like old coffee and closed windows. I told myself I needed groceries, but really, I needed noise. Movement. Proof that the world was still living, and I wasn’t in a little black glass box. 

The sidewalk was slick with rain, and the co-op was mostly empty. I bought ramen, some quavers and a bottle of lemon tea that made my chest ache when I realized Isla used to drink the same kind. I didn’t know why I still noticed stuff like that. I just did. 

I took the long way back. Walked past the old community pool and the run-down tennis courts. The kind of route you only take when you don’t want to go home yet, even if you’ve got nothing waiting for you elsewhere. 

It was quiet. Just the soft scuff of my shoes on wet pavement and broken glass, the occasional hum of a passing car. 

That’s when I saw it. 

At first, it was just a dark shape by the fence. Slumped over near the edge of the tennis court. I figured it was someone who passed out. Maybe a drunkard. Maybe homeless. I almost walked faster. 

But then I noticed the hoodie. Green. A specific kind of green I’d seen before, enough times that it stuck in my head. 

Milo Brown. 

My stomach twisted. I stopped walking, I had quite a few lessons with him, and he’d always wear that same jumper. The lad wasn’t popular, but he went from group to group naturally like he’d always belonged there. 

He wasn’t moving. His head was bent too far sideways. His hand was limp against the pavement. I told myself it didn’t mean anything, but my feet were already turning toward him. 

There was blood. Not a lot. Not like Isla, just enough to make your heart forget how to beat. 

His phone was lying next to him. The screen cracked and dark. 

I dropped my groceries without realizing it. A pack of ramen burst open on the sidewalk. My hands were already shaking as I pulled out my phone and dialled 911. 

My voice barely worked. Everything I said felt like it belonged to someone else, someone watching from far away, someone smarter who knew how to stay detached. I was back there again, like a tape rewinding. The same cold edge in the air. The same weight on my chest. The same buzzing hum in my ears. 

Sirens came faster this time. Yellow tape. cops. One of them looked at me like he knew my face, and that made it worse. 

They took me to the station again. Different room, same questions. 

“When did you last see Milo Brown?” 
 “What were you doing before you found him?” 
 “How close are you to Milo Brown?” 

I didn’t have any answers. Just fragments. Milo and Isla in the hallway, not talking, but seeing each other. Walking past each other like robots. The last time I saw him was in class, something on his face.  

Not boredom or curiosity, fear. And Isla’s voice in my memory, it sounded warm, I could almost taste the sweetness of her Scottish accent, the last I heard from her was in school. She acted normal at least. 

That night I didn’t go home. I couldn’t bring myself to. The apartment felt like it would swallow me whole. 

I crashed at a mate’s place. She didn’t ask questions. Just made space for me on the couch and left a blanket folded over the armrest. 

I lay awake the whole night, staring at the ceiling fan spinning in slow circles. 

And I kept hearing Isla’s voice in my head. From back in October, when we were watching some dumb horror movie. She’d gone quiet suddenly and said: 

“Real horror doesn’ scream. It waits.” 

I finally understood what she meant. 

And whatever this was,  
 It wasn’t done waiting. 

 I woke up sometime around dawn, not that I’d slept much. The grey light from the window made everything in the room look blurred, like it was all underwater. My head felt heavy, but my thoughts were moving too fast. Pieces. Just pieces. None of them fit together right. 

My phone buzzed once. 

 I didn’t look at it. I knew what it was. More questions. Maybe another message from the policewoman who kept saying she knew I was innocent, just “someone who might’ve seen something.” That made me laugh the first time she said it. 

 Quiet and bitter. Because I hadn’t seen anything. Not really. Just the aftermath. Milo slumped like a puppet with the strings cut and Isla just discarded on the floor like some useless object. It almost made me smile. 

I sat up and looked around the room. My friend was still asleep in her bed. Her cat stared at me from the hallway like it knew something I didn’t. 

And then, Isla. Not here. Not anywhere anymore. But still, she pressed in at the edges of everything. Her voice in my head was like a thread I couldn’t pull free. Her laugh echoed in places she had never walked. 

I remembered what they said when they saw her. Not much detail, but enough. A closed door. A window cracked just enough to let in the cold. No note. No Evidence to who the killer was. 

The cops asked me about that too. 
 “When did you last see Isla Thompson?” 
 “What was her relationship with Milo?” 
 “Did she seem... off to you?” 

I didn’t answer, not really. Because how do you explain that someone can be standing right next to you, but already fading? Isla hadn’t been like that. Slipping quietly, even before we knew anything was wrong. 

 No, she always had that full teeth smile. Everyone felt loved around her, she wasn't like that. She never was. 

I thought about her notebook. She carried it everywhere. Called it her “observation log,” like she was studying the world from the outside. I’d tried to peek once. She shut it with this look, like I’d touched something sacred. Or dangerous. 

The city outside was starting to wake up. Horns. Sirens, again, in the distance. Always the sodding sirens. 

I couldn’t stay hidden. Not forever. Not even for the weekend. 

So, I left a thank-you note on the counter, took the blanket from the couch and folded it just the way she had, and I walked out into the morning that didn’t feel like morning. 

And I knew where I was going, even before I admitted it to myself. 

Milo’s place. 

Not because I thought he’d be there, obviously, he wouldn’t. But maybe something else would. Something the cops missed. Something that would stop this feeling, this constant press of not knowing. 

Or maybe just because I didn’t know where else to go.  

I didn’t really think about what to expect when I got there, the front door was locked most likely by the police after what happened. I went round the back of the house with delicate steps, so my footprints weren’t visible, and I found the back door.  

The police probably forgot there was a back door because it wasn’t locked like the front door. Sometimes I think even the smartest people can be stupid sometimes, otherwise they’d be inhuman. Inside, the house was silent, like it was holding its breath. 

 Dust motes hung in the still air, catching the weak light that filtered through the grimy kitchen window. The place hadn’t been touched since the police cleared out. Or at least, it didn’t look like it had. 

I stepped inside, careful not to disturb anything obvious. The linoleum let out a soft squeak under my boot. The air smelled faintly of new books, like in a library and also old coffee. 

I didn’t know what I was looking for, just that I’d know it when I saw it. Something out of place. Something that was left behind. 

The living room was as I remembered: Milo’s endless stacks of notebooks, his weird little sculptures made of wire and glass, and the record player that always skipped track three. All of it is still here. The cops had combed through this mess, but they didn’t know Milo. 

I crouched by the coffee table. One of the notebooks had a dog-eared page. Not his usual style, Milo was methodical; obsessive. He didn’t dog-ear pages, I knew this because I notice the little things in everyone, even when we don’t talk. I flipped it open. 

There was a name scribbled across the top of the page. Repeated three times. 
 “Arlo. Arlo. Arlo.” 

I didn’t recognize it. But Milo had underlined it hard enough to tear the paper. 

That’s when I heard it. 
A floorboard creaked upstairs. I froze. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my body betrayed me, knees locked; breath caught halfway in my throat. Another creak followed, slower this time. Deliberate. 

Someone up there knew I was here. 

The house suddenly felt smaller, like the walls were folding around me. I backed up, bumping into the edge of the coffee table, sending one of Milo’s glass sculptures clattering to the floor. It didn’t shatter, just spun in a slow, mocking circle. 

I reached for the nearest thing I could use as a weapon, an old fireplace poke

leaning against the wall—and edged toward the stairs. My fingers were slick with sweat. The notebook with Arlo on the page still trembled on my other hand. 

The sound came again, louder now. A dragging shuffle. 

Then-  
 A whisper. 

Not words. Just the sound of breath. Too close. 

I spun toward the base of the staircase. Nothing. Empty. But I felt it, like eyes pressing into my skin. Watching. Waiting. The house had swallowed sounds earlier. Now it was amplifying them: the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway, the hum of the fridge, my own thudding pulse. 

Then the whisper again. Closer. 

“You shouldn’t be here…” 

I backed toward the kitchen; my heart was punching holes in my chest. I could see the back door, still slightly ajar. My escape route. My exit. But something made me look back one last time, toward the stairs. 

And that’s when I saw it. 

A shadow. At the top. Not moving. Not breathing. Just there. 

Watching me. 

And in its hand, dangling limply,
 was one of Milo’s notebooks. The whisper came again; it sounded like Milo. Maybe

this is a nightmare. I’m hallucinating. 

 I repeat that over and over as I rush out of the house panting like a dog. I slam the back door behind me and land knee first into the pavement outside. Sweat trickled down the side of my face. Something slipped out of the book I was holding, a little note. I read it slowly... “I know who did it. I know who killed Isla. It was...” The rest of the paper was ripped off. This is exactly what I was looking for. 

                                Chapter 3 

                          “Paranoia awakening” 

 This little ripped piece of paper doesn’t have the answer I need. But it gives me an advantage. An advantage that will always make me 2 steps ahead of the enemy. This is the reason I went to his house. The sky had turned the colour of old bruises, sickly purple fading into a heavy black. 

 I walked fast, not quite running, notebook clutched tight against my chest like it could protect me. Each streetlight I passed flickered as I approached, buzzing like they were trying to whisper secrets too fast to catch. 

The wind picked up, sharp and dry, tugging at my jacket, threading cold fingers into my hair. The sidewalks were empty. Not just quiet, dead. No cars. No dogs barking behind fences. No windows lit up with life. Just me and the sound of my boots hitting cracked pavement. Over and over. 

I tried not to look in the windows I passed. I didn’t want to see my reflection. 

Because what if it wasn’t me looking back? 

I kept my eyes forward. 

The note in my pocket crinkled as I walked, the torn edge digging into my skin. “I know who did it. I know who killed Isla. It was…” I could still see the handwriting in my head, shaky, frantic. Not like Milo’s usual neat lines. 

He was scared when he wrote it. 

And now I can’t stop hearing his voice in the back of my head. That whisper. Like it was following me. 

You shouldn’t be here… 

Every street I turned onto looked the same. Familiar, but wrong. Houses leaned at odd angles; the windows stared too hard. I told myself I was being paranoid, that I was just rattled, that nothing was behind me,

-but I kept checking. 

And then, I passed the old playground. The one where Isla and I used to go after school, when the world still made sense. The swings moved. Just slightly. Swaying like someone had jumped off a second ago. 

But there was no one there. 

The hairs on the back of my neck lifted. My feet slowed down on their own. 

And then I heard it. Just once. Soft and low, carried on the wind. A giggle. 
Isla’s. But Isla was dead. And I was alone. I’m being paranoid, maybe seeing 2 dead people is messing with my head? I ran the rest of the way home. By the time I reached my flat building, my lungs were burning and my legs felt like jelly. The streets behind me stayed silent, but the silence felt wrong. Like it was watching. Waiting. Maybe waiting for the right moment to drag me down a void of darkness. 

The keypad stuck like always, and my shaking fingers fumbled the numbers. 3-2-1-4.

Wrong. Again. 3-2-1-4. The door beeped, unlocked, and I slipped inside like prey diving into a hole. 

The lobby light buzzed overhead, flickering. The bulb had been dying for months, and no one ever fixed it. My footsteps echoed too loudly against the tile floor. The elevator sat open and dark, like a mouth, so I took the stairs. It was a safer option for anyone with a brain. 

I hated the stairwell at night. It always smelled like damp concrete and rust, and tonight it felt even tighter than usual, like the walls were breathing. I climbed fast, not daring to look up or down, afraid that if I did, I’d see something. 

My flat door got stuck for a second when I shoved the key in, like something on the other side was pressing back. But then it gave way, and I slammed it shut behind me, locked it, and bolted it. 

Only then did I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. 

Home. 

But it didn’t feel like home. 

Everything looked the same, my worn-out couch, the half-dead plant in the corner, the dishes I hadn’t done, but it felt like someone else had been here. Like someone had watched it all while I was gone. 

I checked the windows. Still locked. Checked the closets. Empty. Under the bed. Nothing. 

Still, I left the lights on. Every single one. 

I peeled off my jacket and tossed it onto the chair, Milo’s notebook was still clutched in my hand. I set it gently on the coffee table. The torn note sat on top of it like an accusation. 

The silence inside the apartment wasn’t comforting. It felt like it had teeth. 

I didn’t change into pyjamas. I didn’t brush my teeth. I just crawled into bed fully dressed, the blanket pulled tight up to my chin like it was armour. 

The city outside whispered through the cracks in the window, too soft to understand, too steady to ignore. 

I closed my eyes. 

And just as I was about to slip under, drifting into whatever sleep would take me,

I heard it. Right beside my ear. A breath. Followed by a voice. 

“You're getting closer.” 

I shot upright. There was no one there. I didn’t sleep the rest of that night either. 

Not because I was scared, exactly, more like… wired. My brain just wouldn’t let it go. That voice. That breath. I kept replaying it, trying to figure out if it was real or just something my mind made up right as I was falling asleep. It could have been a neighbour, or even a dream. Those half-asleep moments can feel weirdly vivid. But it stayed with me. Too clear, too specific. 

By morning, I was running on caffeine and autopilot. I made coffee without really

tasting it, scrolled through my phone, and opened a few emails I didn’t read.  

The city outside felt louder than usual, but maybe that was just me being hyper-aware. I told myself it was probably nothing. Just one of those moments. But still, I called the non-emergency police line before lunch. 

Two officers came by that afternoon. One of them, Officer Lanning, was friendly in that practiced way people get when they’ve had this conversation a hundred times before. He listened carefully, didn’t interrupt, just nodded as I talked.  

I told him everything, how I was already in bed, how I’d heard a breath right by my ear, how clear the voice had been. 

He did a quick check of the apartment, looked at the windows, asked about my locks. Nothing seemed out of place. No signs anyone had broken in or even tried. I could tell he wasn’t brushing me off, just trying to reassure me. “Could’ve been a dream,” he said gently. “Or maybe a noise outside that your brain filled in.” It sounded logical. I wanted it to be true. 

I thanked him. Locked the door behind them. Sat on the couch for a while, just letting the silence settle back in. 

That night, I went through my usual routine. Pyjamas. Brushed teeth. A soft playlist running while I lay in bed. I didn’t expect to hear the voice again. Honestly, I didn’t know what I expected. 

A few days have passed. Normal stuff. Work, errands, takeout. I even forgot about it

for a little while. Until one morning, I noticed the bedroom window was cracked open. 

Just a little bit. Barely more than an inch. But I didn’t open that window. Ever. It sticks, and it’s drafty, and there’s no screen, so I just leave it alone. I stood there staring at it for a solid minute, trying to figure out if maybe I’d done it and forgotten. I hadn’t. 

So, I called again. They sent Lanning back, this time with a second officer, Patel. She was quiet and focused. She checked the window and asked calm, straightforward questions. 

 Did I have any other keys floating around? Has anyone stayed over? Was there a chance I’d opened it without thinking? 

“No,” I told her. “I know I didn’t.” 

They didn’t find anything unusual. Said they’d do a few extra patrols around the area, just in case. “Probably nothing,” Patel said, “but better to be cautious.” I appreciated that. It helped a little, at least. 

Life carried on. I tried to, too. I cooked more. I went on more walks. Put on a good podcast before bed. Everything slowly settled back into place, except this low hum in the back of my mind, this little “what if” that wouldn’t totally go away. 

And then one evening, I found a word written in the fog on my bathroom mirror. 

It said: “Closer.” 

And again, I hesitated. Not in fear, just… confusion. Because I hadn’t taken a hot shower that day. The mirror shouldn’t have been fogged up at all. 

I stood there for a long time, just staring at it. Then I wiped it clean, washed my hands, and went to make tea. 

I told myself there was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation.  

Soon, I started going back to school and socializing. I had laughed at little jokes for a long time, so it was great to hear the few dad jokes being shouted around the classroom every so often, I felt normal again. 

 Weeks passed and I wasn’t stressed; the police didn’t bother me. I started making friends and gossiped to them on call whenever I felt lonely at home. It was nice not being alone anymore. 

                                Chapter 4 

                          “The invitation” 

It was a Thursday afternoon when the message came through. 

Hey Eleanor! Party at Jess’s place on Friday night. You in? 

I stared at the text for a long moment, my thumb hovering above the screen like it needed permission to respond. Jess’s parties were... chaotic. Loud music, too many bodies in too small a space, conversations that buzzed just out of reach. Not exactly my scene. 

But still, I didn’t reply no, either. 

That night, I lay in bed with my phone balanced on my chest, the glow of the screen dimmed but insistent. Part of me wanted to stay home, curl up with a book and a mug of something warm. Another part whispered, why not? You might actually have fun for once. 

By Friday morning, the whisper had grown louder. 

By Friday evening, I was curling my hair in front of the bathroom mirror. 

I showed up to Jess’s house at 8:42, fashionably late, or just late-late depending on how you looked at it. The bass thumped through the walls like a heartbeat, and the air smelled like perfume and popcorn and cheap beer. I took a breath, stepped

inside, and was immediately engulfed. 

I drifted from room to room, making my best impression of someone comfortable in this world. A couple of people nodded at me in recognition; a few said hi. It wasn’t bad. It also wasn’t great. 

And then I met him. 

He was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping something from a red plastic cup and looking like he didn’t belong there either. His hair was a mess of soft curls, and there was this kind of quiet confidence about him, like he knew who he was, and he didn’t need to prove anything. 

I don’t know what made me say something. Maybe the soft way his eyes met mine. Maybe I just wanted to surprise myself. 

"Not your scene either?" I asked. 

He smiled. “What gave it away?” 

“I don’t know. The fact that you’re not yelling over the music about your latest gym workout?” 

He laughed, and I liked the sound of it. “Guilty. I’m Arlo, by the way. I'm new here.” I paused for a second, like something was missing but it was like an empty space in my mind, I didn’t pay much attention to it. 

 We kept talking, and it was easy, too easy. The kind of conversation that made time skip forward like a scratched CD, suddenly it's 11:30 and you’re wondering where

the night went. 

Arlo was... charming. Not in a fake, overconfident kind of way. Just natural. Effortless. I caught myself leaning in more than once, tucking hair behind my ear even though it didn’t need to be.  

We got close fast. We hung out a few times, more than I had with anyone since Isla was murdered. It was a nice sort of company; I asked him questions of course because that’s what you’d do when you want to know a little more. 

It surprised me, honestly, how natural it felt to have him around. Arlo wasn’t like other people I’d known. He didn’t fill the silence with empty chatter; didn’t pretend to be anything he wasn’t. And he never made me feel like I had to be anything more than exactly what I was. 

But there was still that feeling, like I was only seeing the tip of who he really was. 

One afternoon, we were sitting by the lake near campus, eating sandwiches from a paper bag and watching ducks chase each other in the water. It was one of those quiet days where everything feels slowed down, soft around the edges. 

I reached for his hand without thinking, and he let me. His fingers were warm and still, like he wasn’t used to being touched but didn’t mind it. 

“Can I ask you something?” I spoke. 

He glanced at me. “Sure.” 

“What did you mean that night... when you said you were new around here? You

never really said where you came from before.” 

He hesitated. Just a beat too long. 

Then he smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just a small town. Not much to talk about.” 

“Why dodge that question?” I said, half-teasing, half-not. 

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked out across the water like it held something he needed to see. 

“It’s not that I’m hiding anything bad,” he finally said. “It’s just... complicated. My family's kind of messy. Lots of expectations. Things I didn’t want to be a part of anymore.” 

I nodded, even though I wanted to know more. 

“I came here to start over,” he added, softer now. “To be someone I actually like.” 

That stayed with me. 

Because I knew what it was like to want a clean slate, to leave behind the noise and expectations. Maybe that’s why I didn’t press him, even though part of me still wondered what exactly he was leaving behind. 

It wasn’t a red flag, not exactly. More like a question mark I kept trying to draw into my heart. 

Still, sometimes I’d catch him staring off into space like he was somewhere else entirely. Or I’d find little inconsistencies, stories that didn’t quite match up, photos

missing from his phone like someone had wiped the past clean. 

But I let it go. 

Because even if he was a puzzle, I wanted to figure him out. And maybe part of me hoped he was trying to figure me out too.  

The first time I saw Arlo cry, it was raining. 

We were walking back from a late movie, the streets slick and shimmering under the streetlights. He didn’t say much during the film, and even less on the walk home. I thought maybe he just didn’t like the ending. I almost let it go. 

But something in me knew better. 

“Hey,” I said, stopping under the awning of a closed bookstore. “Are you okay?” 

He looked at me, and I could tell he wanted to lie. I could see the sentence forming behind his eyes, I’m fine. Don’t worry. But it never made it out of his mouth. 

Instead, he sat down on the edge of the steps, his shoulders hunched, and he ran both hands through his hair like he was trying to hold something in that was already breaking loose. 

“I got a letter,” he said quietly. “From home.” 

I sat beside him, close enough that our knees touched. “Bad news?” 

He nodded. Then, after a moment, he added, “It’s my brother. He’s not doing great. He’s... he used to take care of me when we were kids. When things at home were bad.” 

There was a silence, soft and heavy. 

“I left to get away from all of it,” he said. “But sometimes it feels like leaving just makes you guilty instead of free.” 

I didn’t know what to say. So, I reached for his hand. And that’s when I noticed, his eyes were glassy. One tear, quick and quiet, slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. 

He just let it fall. 

There was something incredibly honest about that. Like he wasn’t trying to be strong anymore. Like I was the only one who got to see the version of him that cracked open. 

I leaned my head against his shoulder, and he let out a breath I didn’t know he’d been holding. 

“I’m scared to go back,” he whispered. “But I’m scared not to.” 

And that’s when I realized something: 

Arlo wasn’t distant because he didn’t care. 

He was distant because he cared too much about all of this. Because he felt everything deeply and didn’t always know what to do with it. 

That night, I saw him not as the boy with secrets, but as someone who had survived things he didn’t have words for yet. Someone who is still learning how to live with his ghosts. 

And I think that’s when I really fell for him. 

Not in a fireworks-and-heartbeats way. 

But in the quiet, aching way that says, you don’t have to go through this alone anymore. 

                                     Chapter 5 

                                    “After the rain” 

Things got easier after that night. 

Not magically, not like the weight disappeared,  but like how we weren’t carrying it alone anymore. Arlo started texting me good morning without fail. He’d walk me to class even if it made him late to his own. 

 And I found myself smiling more than I used to. The kind of smile that sneaks up on you, real and unexpected. 

One Saturday, we took the train out to the coast. 

No big plans. Just the need to get away from concrete and deadlines and everything heavy. Arlo showed up at my door with a backpack, a pair of sunglasses that didn’t really suit him, and a pack of strawberry laces that he claimed were “absolutely essential road trip food.” 

We watched the world blur past the window, fields and sleepy towns and sky, and I swear I’d never seen him look more relaxed. He pressed his forehead to the glass and said, “I used to dream about this. Just going somewhere. Anywhere.” 

The air smelled like salt and something green when we got off the train. We wandered through little streets filled with tiny shops and lazy dogs napping in doorways. We shared fish and chips on the beach, sitting cross-legged in the sand

with greasy fingers and wind in our hair. 

He made me laugh so hard I choked on a chip at one point, and he leaned over, grinning. “That’s it. My life goal is now complete. Eleanor choked because I’m hilarious.” 

“You’re barely funny,” I said between coughs, laughing too hard to sound convincing. 

But he was funny. And kind, gentle in ways that caught me off guard. 

Later, as the sun started sinking into the sea, he reached out and brushed a curl behind my ear. It wasn’t a big moment. No dramatic music, no spinning camera angles. Just him. Just me. And that soft golden light that makes everything feel like a memory before it’s even over. 

“I like you,” he said. 

It was simple. Honest. No games. 

I smiled, my heart doing something weird and fluttery in my chest. 

“I like you too.” 

He kissed me then, slow, careful, like he was still learning how to be brave. And maybe I was too. But we kissed anyway, and everything felt a little lighter after that. 

The train ride home was quiet, both of us watching the stars come out from our seats by the window. His hand found mine somewhere around the third stop, and

neither of us said anything. 

We didn’t have to. 

For the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel heavy. 

It felt safe. 

                                    Chapter 6 

                              “Curiosity and coffee” 

It was just after nine when I heard the knock. 

The kind of knock that didn’t feel casual. It wasn’t the friendly hey-you-left-your-jacket kind of tap. It was firm. Measured. Official. 

I froze halfway through brushing my hair, the strands hanging half-dry and uneven around my shoulders. The apartment was quiet, too quiet now that I noticed. Even the fridge had stopped its usual humming. 

I stepped slowly toward the door, every creak in the floorboard sounded like it echoed louder than it should have. 

When I opened it, she was standing there. 

Detective Reaves. 

The policewoman I’d spoken to earlier in the investigation. She still wore that same calm expression, cool blue eyes, dark brown coat, hair pinned back like she hadn’t even blinked all day. 

“Eleanor,” she said gently. “Sorry to drop in unannounced.” 

I stepped aside to let her in, more out of instinct than a thought. “Is something wrong?” 

She didn’t answer right away. 

Instead, she turned slightly and motioned to the man behind her. He stepped into the light like he wasn’t quite used to it, tall, maybe in his late twenties, sharp eyes that scanned the room in a single sweep. He had short dark brown hair that brought out his hard jaw. There was something about him that felt... still. Like a lake that looks calm but could drown you without a ripple. 

“This is Detective Harrow,” Reaves said. “He’ll be staying nearby for a while. Assigned to your protection detail.” 

I blinked. “Wait- what? I thought things were calming down.” 

Reaves gave me that look, part apology, part you know better. “We still haven’t found the killer. And your name came up again. We can’t be sure why yet. But until we are, we need to take precautions.” 

I felt the floor shift under me. Not physically, but in that way where everything you thought was solid starts to tilt. 

“So... you think they might come after me?” 

“It’s not a certainty,” Harrow said, his voice low, even. “But it’s not a risk we’re willing to take. You’re a key witness. If you’re not safe, the case isn’t either.” 

I nodded slowly, my heart ticking louder with each second. 

Reaves stepped closer, her tone softening. “This doesn’t mean you’re in immediate danger. We’re just being careful. Harrow will be close by. You’ll still go

to classes and see your friends. Nothing must change on the outside. But if anything feels off, anything, you call him.” 

I glanced at Harrow again. He gave me a small nod. Not warm, exactly. But solid. Like someone who had made keeping people alive into a profession. 

It should have made me feel safer. 

But as I shut the door behind them and leaned against it, staring into the dark apartment, all I felt was how very not alone I was, and yet, how that didn’t mean I was safe. 

And somewhere, in the back of my mind, a question stirred that I didn’t want to ask. 

I immediately grabbed my phone once I calmed down and dialled the number. He answered on the third ring. 

“Arlo?” 

“Yeah, is everything alright?” He sounded so cute. 

“The police came knocking a few minutes ago, they said something about police protection...They haven’t found out who’s the killer yet,” I swallowed hard. “I don’t think we should see each other the next few days, I don’t want them considering you as a victim.” There was silence for a few minutes as he took in the information. 

“Okay. I understand.” He finally said, making me feel relieved that he took it well. I ended the call and sighed, hearing a knock on the door again.  

I opened it for Detective Harrow; a fake smile planted on my face as I welcomed him

into my cramped little apartment. We sat there on the couch for a while; the only sounds were the fridge and the clock. 

                                 Chapter 7 

                                      “Harrow” 

She opened the door with a smile that didn’t quite convince me. Polite, perfunctory, and stretched just enough to show she was trying. Not to be rude, no, she didn’t look like the sort to do that. It was the kind of smile you put on when you’re holding it together for someone else’s benefit. She knew not to treat authority like one of her mates. 

“Come in,” she said, stepping back into the narrow corridor of her flat. 

The place was small, no surprise there, standard student digs. A mismatched sofa, a wobbly table stacked with revision notes, and the faint scent of lavender room spray clinging to the air. 

 She’d made an effort to keep it tidy, which told me plenty. People under pressure either let everything fall to pieces, or they clean obsessively, trying to control what little they can. Eleanor struck me as the latter. 

She hovered for a second, then sank into the far end of the couch, tucking one leg under the other. 

Eleanor Green. Eighteen. University fresher. She had that look some girls get right before the world gets properly cruel, soft features still untouched by cynicism, but her eyes… her eyes told a different story. Sharp, grey-blue, and constantly flicking to

the corners of the room as if she couldn’t stop scanning. 

 Brunette hair fallen messy down her back, that had probably not been brushed in a while.  A knitted jumper too big for her, sleeves almost swallowing her hands. She looked like she was trying to disappear into it. 

Not fragile. No. There was something steel-threaded underneath. But she was scared. Trying not to be, but she was. 

We sat for a few minutes, both pretending we were comfortable. The only sounds were the low hum of the fridge and the wall clock ticking far too loudly, like it was mocking the silence. 

I studied her carefully, not just the way you do when someone might be in danger, but the way you do when they don’t quite fit where they’re supposed to. Her name had come up twice now, in a case that shouldn’t have touched her. “Witness," they said. Wrong place, wrong time. But I didn’t believe in coincidence, not in this job. And not with the way she kept glancing at the window like she half-expected someone to be watching. 

She reminded me of someone I knew long ago. Someone who didn’t realize she was in deep until it was too late. 

“Would you prefer I stayed out here or took the chair near the door?” I asked, keeping my tone easy. 

She blinked, clearly not expecting the question. “Oh, um… out here’s fine. The sofa’s

fine.” 

I gave a short nod and leaned back just slightly, not enough to drop my guard. I couldn’t afford that. Not yet. There was something about this girl, about this case, that didn’t sit right. 

Eleanor didn’t realise how close to danger she still was. 

Or, worse, she did. 

And that made her far more interesting than I liked. 

                               Chapter 8 

                                   “Eleanor” 

“So... What do you do in your free time here?” Detective Harrow asked, looking around the apartment, clearly not amused by the mismatched furniture or the half-dead plant wilting on the windowsill. 

“Not a lot,” I said, brushing a loose thread off my jeans. 

“I can tell.” 

I glared at him. What kind of small talk was that? “Actually, I mostly hang out with my boyfriend.” There was a small bit of pride in my voice, one that I didn’t bother to hide. 

“Oh yeah? What’s he like?” Harrow leaned back a little, arm draped casually over the back of the couch. He asked too many questions. Then again, maybe that’s what he got paid to do. 

“He’s thoughtful and acts like a real gentleman.” I smiled slightly as I glanced over at the small Polaroid of Arlo pinned to the fridge door. It was from last fall. We were at the pumpkin patch, his sweater too big, his smile crooked. I stared for a second too long. 

“That’s nice,” Harrow said, his voice flat but not entirely dismissive. 

I tilted my head at him. “Do you have any lovers?” 

“No. With this job I don’t really have time to go out looking for a relationship,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “People think it’s exciting- solving crimes and chasing leads- but mostly it’s paperwork and sleepless nights.” 

He paused, his eyes flicking to the window where the streetlamp outside cast a weak amber glow through the slats of the blinds. 

“Ever get lonely?” I asked, surprising myself with the question. 

He chuckled dryly. “All the time. Comes with the territory.” 

We both went quiet again. The fridge hummed louder than before, or maybe I was just more aware of it now. 

I stood and walked toward the kitchen. “Want some coffee? I have that cinnamon kind. You look like someone who drinks cinnamon coffee.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re wearing corduroy. People in corduroy like cinnamon.” 

He let out a short laugh. “Fair enough. Yeah, I’ll take some.” 

As I poured water into the kettle, I could feel his eyes on my back. Not in a creepy way, just... observant. Like he was waiting for something. Or trying to figure out if I was hiding something. Maybe I was. Maybe we all were. 

“You ever think about leaving?” He asked suddenly. 

I turned, confused. “What, the apartment?” 

“No. The city.” 

I leaned against the counter. “Sometimes. But Arlo’s here. And, you know... rent’s cheap.” 

His eyes narrowed a bit at the mention of Arlo again, just for a second. Then he looked down at his hands, as if thinking twice before saying what was next. 

“He’s not a suspect, you know,” I said before he could speak. 

“I didn’t say he was.” 

“You were thinking it.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

As the kettle clicked off with a soft pop, I busied myself with the cafetière, half to avoid looking at him and half because I needed something to do with my hands. The coffee grounds hissed quietly as I poured the water in a slow circle, steam curling upwards and fogging the kitchen window. 

Harrow hadn’t moved. He was still sitting at the little dining table, fingers laced, elbows on the wood. Watching. Always bloody watching. 

“I didn’t say he was a suspect,” he repeated, this time with a note of mild exasperation, like he was humouring me. Or maybe himself out of boredom. 

I pressed the plunger down gently, listening to it creak under the pressure. “You don’t have to. It’s in the way you said nothing.” 

There was a pause, the kind that grows long legs and starts pacing the room. 

“He’s not,” I said again, quieter now. “Arlo wouldn’t hurt anyone.” 

“I never said he would,” Harrow replied, and there was something measured in his voice now, something intentionally careful. It made the hairs on my arms prickle. “But people do strange things under pressure. Especially when they think they’re protecting someone.” 

I turned, mug in each hand. “Milk?” 

He nodded once. “Just a splash.” 

I obliged, handed him the mug, and sat down opposite. The chair creaked under me like it was reluctant to join this conversation. 

“You think I’m protecting him?” I asked, eyes fixed on the swirling coffee in my cup. 

“I think you’re loyal,” he said, and it was almost kind. “Which is admirable. But loyalty can cloud judgement.” 

I scoffed. “Bit rich coming from someone who just accused my other half of- what, exactly? Being too quiet? Drinking the last of the milk without writing it down?” 

Harrow smiled faintly. “You’re defensive. That’s new.” 

I bristled. “You’re infuriating. That’s not.” 

He chuckled into his coffee, then set the mug down with a soft clink. “We’re not here because of the milk, as you well know.” 

The flat fell quiet again. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, fading fast. Probably an ambulance. Or maybe just a bus with a squeaky fanbelt. Hard to tell in this part

of the city. 

Harrow tapped a finger against his mug. “You said Arlo was in last night.” 

“He was.” 

“Right.” He gave me a look I’d seen before, on witnesses, on suspects. Somewhere between doubtful and resigned. “But the neighbour downstairs says they heard footsteps around midnight. Heavy ones. Arlo doesn’t exactly weigh sixteen stone.” 

I met his gaze, flat. “So now you think I went out?” 

“I think someone did.” 

“You’re reaching.” 

“Maybe.” He leaned back slightly. “But we both know you're not telling me everything.” 

The thing is, he wasn’t wrong. 

I wasn’t telling him everything. 

But it wasn’t because of Arlo. 

There was a knock at the door just then, sharp, impatient. We both turned toward it. I stood, but Harrow raised a hand. 

“I’ll get it.” 

He crossed the room with that measured gait of his, opened the door. A uniformed constable stood outside, breath misting in the hallway light. 

“Sir,” the young officer said, nodding at Harrow. “We’ve got something. From the

skip behind the chemist’s.” 

Harrow’s expression didn’t change, but I saw his shoulders tense ever so slightly. 

“What is it?” He asked. 

“A wallet. Belongs to a missing lad.” 

My stomach turned to ice. 

“Covered in blood,” the constable added. “And- there’s a receipt inside. For a pub just around the corner from here. Dated yesterday. 10:43 p.m.” 

I felt every tick of the clock on the wall. 

Harrow glanced back at me. “You said you didn’t go out.” 

“I didn’t,” I said, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to me. 

He stepped aside and nodded at the constable. “Bag it and send it to forensics. I’ll want a copy of that receipt.” 

The officer left, boots echoing down the corridor. 

Harrow shut the door and turned back to me. “This would be the part where you decide how much you really want to keep protecting someone. Or yourself.” 

                                  Chapter 9 

                                       “Harrow” 

The door clicked shut behind the constable, but the chill he’d brought in lingered. I stayed still for a moment, hand on the handle, listening to the echo of retreating footsteps. Then I turned. 

She was still sitting there, tense, eyes wide but unreadable. I knew that look. See it often enough. A cocktail of fear, guilt, and something else, something harder to pin down. Loyalty, perhaps. Or a secret trying not to surface. 

“I didn’t,” she said. I believed she thought that. But that’s never been enough for me in my line of work. 

I crossed the room slowly, the way I do when I don’t want to spook a witness, or a suspect. Sat back down, clasped my hands, and leaned forward just slightly. 

A wallet. Bloodied. Belonging to a lad who hadn’t been seen in two days. That pub, barely a minute’s walk. 10:43 p.m., it said on the receipt. Bang on the time I’d been trying to get the truth out of her last night, and she’d sworn blind she’d been in for the evening. 

People lie. It’s not the lying that bothers me, it’s why. 

I studied her face. “You’re shaking,” I said, not unkindly. 

She looked down at her hands. “It’s just the cold.” 

“It’s not cold in here.” 

She didn’t respond. 

I sighed, sat back. “Look, I’m not here to pin anything on you. But someone out there knows exactly what happened behind that chemist’s, and I’m willing to bet you’ve got a piece of it- even if you don’t realize it yet.” 

I waited. Silence.  

“You said you didn’t go out,” I repeated, firmer this time. “I want to believe you. I do. But that receipt is a problem. And right now, I need to know whether you’re protecting yourself- or someone else.” 

Because if it’s the latter… I might still be able to help. 

                             Chapter 10 

                                 “Eleanor” 

I stood frozen for a long second, my heart knocking against my ribs. Then I sat down again, hands wrapped tightly around the cooling mug. 

“Give me a reason to trust you,” I said quietly. 

He didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “Because I’m trying to get to the truth.”  

The clock ticked louder as the day slipped into that moody stretch of late afternoon where London turns the colour of dishwater and every window starts glowing like a pub sign. Outside, rain freckled the panes, not a downpour, just the kind that gets under your collar and makes you question all your life choices, like going out without a brolly or agreeing to let a detective hang around in your kitchen. 

Harrow hadn't moved in an hour. 

He was still sat in the chair like it owed him money, coat off now, tie loosened. He’d claimed my favourite mug, the one that said World’s Okayest Human, and had made no attempt to apologize.

"You planning on staying?" I asked, already knowing the answer.  

"Just for tonight," he said, not looking up. "Precautionary." 

“Precautionary like an umbrella in August or like labelling your leftovers ‘radioactive’ so no one nicks them?” 

He looked up at that. “Bit of both.” 

I sighed and went to the fridge. “Well, we’ve got milk, three eggs, and something that might’ve once been hummus but now looks like a science experiment. You’re not fussy, right?” 

“Compared to what? Arlo’s cooking?” 

I barked a laugh before I could stop myself. “He burnt cereal last week. How do you even do that?” 

“He put the bowl on the hob instead of the kettle. I listened to the report.” 

“You listened to the report? I didn’t know police could listen to firefighter calls.” 

He just shrugged and took another sip. Smug git. 

As night fell, the flat got that eerie quiet that only old buildings manage, full of creaks and whispers, like it was remembering all the other poor sods who’d lived there before us. Arlo still wasn’t back. No messages, no calls. 

 Which wasn’t unusual, but in the current climate, i.e., the ‘bloodied wallet found behind the chemist’ climate, it wasn’t exactly comforting. 

I could feel Harrow watching me from the corner of the room, but he didn’t say anything. He was good at that. The whole looming silence thing. Probably studied it in detective school between courses on ‘how to ruin someone’s Tuesday’ and ‘making tea without asking.’ 

“The sofa is comfy, trust me.” I said finally. “But if you snore, I will smother you with

that hideous cushion.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “The one shaped like a sausage dog?” 

“No, that is Arlo’s emotional support pillow. You touch it, you die.” 

We settled into an awkward rhythm, the kind of half-domesticity that usually ends in a tense argument or someone doing the washing up in a passive-aggressive silence. Fortunately, it didn’t do either. 

Instead, Harrow commandeered the remote and started watching a nature documentary where an octopus murdered a crab in cold blood. 

“Comforting bedtime story,” I muttered. 

“It’s called the circle of life,” he said, not looking away. “Some of us find solace in it.” 

“You need therapy.” 

“I’ve got a therapist.” 

“Does she know you emotionally bond with murder documentaries?” 

He smiled faintly. “She thinks I’m fascinating.” 

“Sounds like she needs therapy, too.” 

The night deepened. Streetlights painted amber lines across the carpet. Somewhere in the building, a radiator hissed like it was holding a grudge. 

Around midnight, I woke to the sound of Harrow on the phone, voice low, serious. Something about CCTV and time stamps. I pretended to be asleep. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I was still listening. 

The next morning was worse. Tea without sugar. Arlo is still missing. And Harrow, somehow, had the audacity to look refreshed. 

Over the week, he stayed. Not every night on the sofa, sometimes he’d vanish for hours, sometimes all night, but he always came back. Like a boomerang made of sarcasm and suspicion. 

We settled into a pattern that shouldn’t have felt normal but somehow did. Shared coffee. Quiet breakfasts. Watching crap telly in the evenings while waiting for bad news to knock. 

Every day, more pieces came in. CCTV footage of someone in a hoodie near the chemist. A voicemail from Arlo’s work saying he hadn’t turned up in four days. A witness saying they heard shouting in the alley the night the boy went missing. Harrow put it all together like a grim jigsaw puzzle, and I just tried not to fall apart. 

One night, as the rain returned and the city curled in on itself like a cold cat, I found Harrow on the balcony, smoking. 

“You’re not allowed to smoke out there,” I said, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. 

“Not allowed to do a lot of things. Doesn’t stop anyone.” 

I joined him anyway. The city looked soft and wet, all the sharp edges dulled. 

“Why are you really here?” I asked. “Not just tonight. All week.” 

He looked at me then, really looked. His eyes look tired, but sharp as ever. 

“Because I don’t think this is about Arlo,” he said. “And I think you know more than you’re saying. Not because you’re guilty, but because you’re scared of something worse.” 

I didn’t answer because he was right. By Wednesday, the flat smelled permanently of coffee and damp coats. Harrow had adopted a strange kind of tenancy, didn’t bring a bag, didn’t do the washing up, but had somehow claimed one corner of the sofa and a particular mug like it was in his will. 

 He still hadn’t left more than a few hours at a time. Every time I asked if he was going home, he gave me that look, the one people usually reserve for lost pets or defrosting chicken. 

Arlo still hadn’t turned up. At first, I assumed he was just hiding out, maybe laying low until things blew over,  it wouldn’t be the first time. But five days is a long time to ghost your flatmate, especially when there’s a murder involved. And especially when your detective lodger keeps looking at you like you might be the next one to disappear. 

Harrow never accused. He didn’t need to. He had this insidious talent for just… being present. 

 Breathing near you in a way that makes your thoughts feel too loud. Even when he was stirring up his tea with that stupid, slow-motion wrist-flick like it was a potion, I could feel it, the unspoken questions, stacking up behind his eyes like paperwork

no one wanted to touch. 

Then Thursday happened. 

It was around two in the afternoon. I was trying to work, or pretending to at least, staring at my laptop screen with the intensity of someone watching a very slow car crash. Harrow had gone quiet, which was never good. 

 He was on the phone again, standing in the hallway with one arm braced against the doorframe like he was doing dramatic jazz hands for no one. 

I caught pieces. 
 "Behind the bins?" 
 "Positive ID?" 
 "Right. Bag it. Photos first." 

He came back into the lounge and didn’t sit. Just stood there, hands in pockets, watching me like I might explode or levitate. 

“What?” I asked, because apparently, I enjoy pain. 

He tilted his head slightly. “One of my officers found something.” 

I waited. He didn’t continue. 

“Well, if it’s the missing packet of bourbons, tell them they’re heroes.” 

“Behind the estate, off Herne Hill Road,” he said. “Another body. Male, late twenties. Same cause of death,  blunt force trauma. But this time… something in the victim’s coat pocket.” 

He reached into his own and pulled out an evidence bag. Small. Clear. Inside: a keychain. 

Not just any keychain. My keychain. 

Silver, worn. A tiny enamel fox I’d had since I was sixteen. I used to hang off my house keys until I took it off a month ago because it kept jabbing me in the leg through my bag. 

I stared at it for a solid ten seconds, like maybe if I squinted hard enough it would turn into something else. A Tesco Clubcard. A rock. Anything but that. 

“Where did you find that?” I asked, voice too calm. 

Harrow’s tone matched mine, but his eyes had lost all the softness they’d pretended to have earlier in the week. 

“Left inside the victim’s coat. Front pocket. No signs of transfer, looks like it’s been there since before the body was moved.” 

“I don’t- ” My throat closed up. “I don’t know how that got there.” 

He nodded. “Funny thing is, we didn’t even know it was yours until Harper,  one of my DCs,  recognized it. Said you dropped it once during your last statement.” 

I suddenly hated DC Harper with the fire of a thousand suns. 

“I lost it weeks ago,” I said. “I thought I’d dropped it on the bus.” 

“And you never thought to mention it?” 

I gave a sharp laugh. “Right, because obviously I’m meant to notify Homicide every

time I misplace a novelty fox.” 

He didn’t blink. “This isn’t just novelty now, is it?” 

Silence stretched between us like an elastic band pulled too tight. 

“I don’t know how it got there,” I repeated again, more firmly this time. 

He watched me for a moment, then slowly lowered the evidence bag onto the coffee table. 

“Well,” he said, “either you’re very unlucky… or someone wants you to look guilty.” 

That part sat heavier than anything else. 

Because deep down, under the fear and the confusion, I knew something had shifted. Something deliberate. 

Someone had gone out of their way to plant that. 

But who? 

Arlo? Couldn’t be. Unless he’d gone from serial forgetter of birthdays to mastermind of psychological sabotage. 

And if it’s not him… 

Then who the hell wanted me caught up in this? 

“Don’t go anywhere,” Harrow said, grabbing his coat. 

“Didn’t plan to,” I muttered. “I live here, remember?” 

He paused in the doorway, looking back. “That’s what I’m worried about.”   

That night, sleep didn’t bother showing up. Not even a courtesy yawn. I lay on the

sofa, Harrow’s usual haunt, staring at the ceiling and wondering how much of my life had to unravel before I was legally allowed to have a full breakdown and a bottle of red at 9 a.m. 

The fox keychain sat on the table like a bad omen. Harrow had left it there deliberately, I think, maybe to see if I’d pocket it again or hurl it out the window. I did neither. I just stared at it like it might be confessing at some point. 

At some point around three, I heard Harrow moving about in the kitchen. I found him leaning against the counter, shirt sleeves rolled up, drinking tea like it was moonshine. 

He didn’t look at me when he spoke. 

“You sure you’ve not got enemies?” 

I snorted. “What, beyond the Daily Mail comments section?” 

He gave me a side glance. “Anyone who might have reason to hurt you, make it look like you’re involved in this mess?” 

“Beyond the passive-aggressive woman in the flat upstairs who keeps nicking my Amazon parcels? Not really.” I hesitated. “Maybe a few people from uni who didn’t appreciate my opinions on Pinter, but I doubt they’re staging murders over it.” 

He rubbed a hand across his face. “This isn’t random. Whoever’s doing this, they’ve done their research. They know about you, about Arlo. This is personal.” 

There was a pause. He didn’t fill the silence. Neither did I. 

Finally, he drained the last of his tea, grabbed his coat off the back of the kitchen chair, and nodded at the door. “Come on.” 

I blinked. “Where?” 

“We’re going digging.” 

“Is this the part where I get arrested in the back of a Ford Focus?” He rolled his eyes.  

“If I was going to arrest you, I’d have done it already. Brought handcuffs and everything.” 

“Tempting. You’re lucky I like the emotionally repressed ones.” 

He ignored that. Classic. 

                                Chapter 11 

                                      “Harrow” 

It started at that sorry excuse for a café Arlo worked in, down a back road in Brixton, the sort of place that thinks character means chipped mugs and indie playlists on loop. The name was something forgettable, faux-French maybe. 

Nav, the manager, met us at the counter. Wiry fella, greying at the temples in that way that says life’s had a good go at him. Shirt sleeves rolled, eyes ringed red, and the look of a man who hasn't slept more than four hours a night in over a decade.  

Reminded me of a DI I knew back at Holloway station, same hollow cheeks, same twitch in the jaw when asked a direct question. 

“Didn’t show up. Didn’t call,” he told me, arms crossed tight. “Thought maybe he’d just flounced off. He does that sometimes. Mood swings like a bloody weather app.” 

I didn’t laugh. I’ve known people who vanished because they wanted to, and people who vanished because someone else wanted them to do so, more. You learn to feel the difference. Arlo didn’t strike me as the former. 

“When was the last time you saw him?” 

Nav scratched the back of his head like he might dig the answer out from under the scalp. “Last Thursday. Said he was meeting someone after closing. Didn’t say who.” 

“Was he acting weird?” 

“Arlo’s always acting weird, guv.” 

Useless. But most people are when you catch them off guard. Still, you ask. You watch how they blink, where their eyes go, how long they hold your gaze. Nav had nothing to hide, not that I could see. 

The place was cluttered in that curated way, like someone had spent far too long making it look spontaneous. Fairy lights, mismatched chairs, shelves lined with battered books no one was ever going to read. We had a look around anyway. 

Found a half-used loyalty card stuffed down beside the till, five stamps in, nothing remarkable. 

Eleanor sat there holding up a takeaway cup of coffee.  Watching the steam rise off someone else’s cappuccino, untouched.  

Arlo... Nineteen? Twenty? Not a kid but still green. People like that disappear and the world barely notices. Unless someone makes it. 

Back when I was on the Met’s missing persons unit, I’d see this pattern again and again. Young lad. Quiet. Bit off-kilter. Last seen late. Friends think he’s moody, flaky. Nothing serious until the second week, when someone finally checks his flat and finds a crust of dishes and a charger still plugged in.  

We walked out with next to nothing. A few dead ends and a name with no face to tie it to. But it was a start. 

The city doesn’t care who goes missing. But I do. Or at least, I used to. And that’s usually enough. 

                                Chapter 12 

                                     “Eleanor”  

We started with Arlo’s work, a grim little café down Brixton Way, the kind that still proudly advertised "gluten-free brownies" like it was a novelty. His manager, a man called Nav with the expression of a man who hadn’t had a proper day off since 2012, didn’t know much. 

“Didn’t show up. Didn’t call. I thought maybe he’d just flounced off. He does that sometimes. Mood swings like a bloody weather app.” 

“When was the last time you saw him?” Harrow asked. 

Nav scratched his head. “Last Thursday. Said something about meeting someone after closing. Didn’t say who.” 

“Was he acting weird?” 

“Arlo’s always acting weird, guv.” 

We left with a half-used loyalty card, a lipstick-marked takeaway cup that wasn’t mine, and more questions than answers. 

Back in the car, Harrow turned the fox keychain over in his hand, again and again. I could tell what he was thinking. That tense sort of thinking that usually ends in bad news. 

“I had a mate check phone records,” he said after a while. “You’ve been getting texts

from a number linked to a burner phone. Started three weeks ago.” 

I frowned. “What texts?” 

He glanced sideways. “Deleted. But backups caught them.” 

He handed over a printed sheet. It wasn’t long. 

You don’t know everything about him. 
 He’s not who you think. 
 Start looking. 

Three messages. Anonymous. All before any body had turned up. All aimed at me. 

My stomach turned. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. 

“I wanted to see what you’d do. Whether you’d bring it up. You didn’t.” 

“Because I never saw them.” 

“Someone wanted you to.” He folded the paper. “But someone also made sure you didn’t.” 

We sat in silence, the heater humming faintly; the outside world blurred with drizzle. 

Finally, I said, “What if this isn’t about Arlo?” 

Harrow didn’t reply. Didn’t have to. We were thinking the same thing. 

What if it was about me?