thinking about karkat @countonthestars - Tumblr Blog

Jan 17, 2022

(posting this for myself)

The full thing of my WIP novel (so far), chapters 1-10 iirc

Chapter 1

I was always taught to value the truth.

My dad's an English teacher, spending his days teaching bored middle schoolers how to read between the lines, investigate the world between the pages. He could bring to life the words written by scholars years ago. At bedtime, he would sit down and read me stories of princes and heroes, and of talking animals. I grew bored of those quickly, so he took to reading older books - nothing like Shakespeare or Poe, but things like Narnia. And not just American authors, he'd pick up stories from around the world. Especially from India, often gifted from family and friends. They were all mystical, intriguing. A majority of them were romance novels, but they held the same qualities, the same captivating elements. Worlds of mystery and magic - I loved them.

I was nine when he bought me my first mystery. It had missing toys and lost friends and it didn't matter if the reading level was perfect for me, I was drawn in by the excitement of it all. The thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of a mystery solved. The toy returned to the sister and the child back with his parents. A happy ending, and the truth coming to light.

By the age of 11, my room had a full wall dedicated to bookshelves. Filled with gifts from family when they came to visit, or things my aunt picked up at the local thrift store or garage sale. It didn't matter how tattered they were, how worn the pages, I loved them. I got a library card the month after my 13th birthday, a small shiny square of plastic with a yellow streak across the top, proudly reading Steinham Public Library. The back had the barcode and card number and a space for me to write my name.

Worn by the years, it's almost illegible thanks to the messy scribbling I had until high school, but you could still clearly make out what was written - Hari Dhawan. This piece of plastic was my life source through middle school, my desk piling with book after book as I delved deeper and deeper into their worlds.

My room was in a corner on the top floor of our two-floor house. While the bottom floor held our living room, my dad's office, and the large kitchen for my mom to work her magic in, the top floor was cluttered with spare bedrooms that were always half full. Relatives coming and going, you could always hear laughter or conversation of some sort, making our house really feel like a home

I share a wall with my sister, always able to hear her going on about some boy or another. She had been sucked into the world of pop stars and celebrities after her first tabloid magazine a friend had given her in 5th grade. From there it turned to films and borderline addiction to the movie theatre. It was endearing, watching her try to emulate the characters she saw on the larger-than-life screen. She wanted to be an actor herself, being an avid member of our local children's theatre.

And while my parents supported and encouraged Anisha, they also herded her into sports, as they did with me. I was never one for sports like football, instead signing up with the local dojo halfway through my 7th-grade year. Sticking with it, it became a place to reflect and work out my frustrations, and like the library became a second home to me.

I was 14 when I first got in trouble for lying. It was something small I hadn't thought about - skipping a class to go to the library instead of going after. There was some book I wanted, the name not important, but it seemed way more important than going to the meetup that day. We lived in a smaller town, so my parents trusted me to get myself placed, but they still expected me to handle my responsibilities - within reason of course.

This had been a meeting for a group project for a class that I honestly thought was too easy for me. Because of that I skipped working with my group, sending a text saying I'd just do my part later and send it over. Turns out this was more important than I thought, being a large part of my grade that semester. Time passed, the project got submitted, and I failed. A parent-teacher meeting was caused and I got in trouble.

My dad was mad, I had never really slacked on my grades before. Even with all the practices, I went to, I stayed on top of things. And the ironic part was even if I hated the class, I was still passionate about the project, but I had skimped on it - missing out on important information for what I needed to do. My partners had been mad and told the teacher I had skipped out. We only had a weekend to do it and I had ditched.

The lecture that followed was the worse one I had that year. But my dad had said something that stuck to me. If I believe in a cause, I need to see it through. Staying loyal to people can say more than I might realize. Even if it was a project for school, the attitude was the same.

And honestly, I don't know why that hit me so hard. Maybe it's because of the thought of having a cause to stick to, and how important staying true to it could be. If someone's day could be changed based on your actions and doing what you thoughts was right, then why couldn't it change a life?

So I got back into mysteries. I was 15 at this point, having long since moved on to more 'mature' books than the kiddie mysteries I had read as a kid. But looking into it brought me to a whole new world - the intense, painstaking craft of thriller novels. Mysteries that put you on the edge of your seat, your brain-racking for clues, your heart fully into it, hoping that the truth would be worth it even more. And it always was.

I devoured any mystery and thriller I could find, my shelves going from historical to modern-day, grand heroes being replaced by cunning detectives. The only constant my small collection of romance novels - a guilty pleasure. I went out of freshman year with my worldview shifted and my mind made up - I wanted to be a detective.

I taught myself to observe the world, to note how people walked, talked, move. Personality types, body language, how people looked at others. True crime became my new insomnia fix, the morning news going with my morning coffee, journalism club helping me with investigation. It became an obsession and it was paying off.

By 16 I was fully invested, my mind filling with scenarios and ideas, channeled into creative writing. A hobby to stave off my eagerness, to help not talk people's ears off. My world was filled with shows and books and journals. The craze of being fascinated about crime from afar was fully in effect, but that's all it was - watching from afar. In my mind, I'd have to wait to enter the workforce to really be able to see the action.

I was 17 when I saw my first dead body.

Chapter 2

Steinham isn't a well-known town. Buried in the forests of Maine, it's got a downtown surrounded by rows of residential areas - and that's about it. Trails lead from local parks into the woods, making hiking a fairly popular pastime. This is what I was attempting to do on a foggy Sunday in the fall, sick of being cooped up at home and wanting to get some fresh air.

I wasn't alone on the trail, but I was in my own world. Walking at a casual pace along the side of the path, earbuds in, I was content to just observe the woods around me. There was an almost serene calm to the trees, light fog drifting around them, moisture on their leaves. A sense of calm, a moment of peace.

It didn't last long.

Halfway through my walk, I noticed a smell - a stench more like - coming from up the trail. There was no one ahead of me and only a middle-aged lady behind me. Taking my earbuds out, I moved towards where the smell was coming from - a small ditch on the side of the trail. Growing stronger as I got closer, it was almost unbearable. Daring a peek into the ditch, I'd never forget what I saw.

It must've been another hiker, taken a bad tumble off the side of the rocky path. Bright and muddy hiking clothes covered most of them, with their half-rotten face smashed against the dirt. Legs and arms mangled, it obviously wasn't a pretty fall. I could only stare in shock at the sight, so much so I didn't even notice the other hiker coming up behind me until her scream was piercing my ears.

The police came quick after and I headed home, not in the mood to go hiking for a while after. Even if I had already desensitized the concept of crime to myself, the sight of that poor hiker was seared into my memory - and so was the smell. It wasn't a common one, and so eventually it faded to the back of my mind. After all I had other things to worry about.

For almost a month now, residents of Steinham had been going missing. Some were gone from their homes in the night, some never reported in to work, or the mail just started to pile up. People were getting increasingly worried every passing day. No matter what club or occasion you went to it was all people talked about. Classes at the dojo grew in size almost overnight - more people than ever wanting to know how to defend themselves against whatever attacker flooded their nightmares.

As the cases piled up and the headlines kept coming, the police put out statement after statement saying they were looking into it - sentiments that slowly lost meaning altogether. 7 missing people in one month, all right under our noses. Not one lead, they said. Not enough evidence they said. They were gritting excuses through their teeth.

The first victim was a mother, someone you'd see frequenting the bakery. Loving husband, flourishing garden, two young boys she left behind. Gone overnight, scheduled for a book club the next morning. They had thought she had gone into the woods for a run, but she never came back. Her husband's been the most vocal in wanting to find those who haven't been found yet.

A week later a businessman. Recently moved out from the big city to work remotely, he had no real friends. A quiet man he always got the same black coffee every morning at 8 am. He didn't call into work for 4 days straight, unusual enough for his boss to contact local authorities.

Then a local cashier, fresh out of high school. Saving up to move out, to live closer to prospective careers. A history major, we saw each other at the library sometimes. She would always check out these thick textbooks - bigger than her head. She worked night shifts at Costco, studying during the day until she never returned from class for her 8 pm shift.

We thought that would be it. A tense quiet settled over our community as search parties went out and family members exchanged news and condolences. No news about leads or suspects ever showed. No one wanted to think the worse so hope kept up that they were ok, just lost. Incredibly lost. Weeks deep in the woods, with no hope of reaching us, but ok. We could hope.

We could hope.

Hope didn't last. Two weeks later a couple went missing, two kids from my school. Two juniors, who I shared a math class with. Who I had seen walking in the halls. Laughing at the back of class. Two unsuspecting kids who had wandered into the woods for a date and never made it out. We had a school assembly later that week, about the dangers of the forest and how important it was for people to know where you are. It just felt tone-deaf.

The sixth victim, so far, was a teacher. This one hit the hardest, I had known her personally. She was my dad's friend, my mother's gossip buddy. Someone who sat with me and then later my sister to explain math concepts we just couldn't get. Someone who made an impact on the community was now gone. My dad was crushed, wanting to mourn even if we didn't know that she was dead.

Steinham was stranger to crime like this. The most shocking event that graced our newspapers was usually robberies or maybe the occasional house fire. You just didn't see things this serious, which is probably why it hit even harder. These were people you knew, people you saw walking down the street. Friends, family, coworkers, they mattered to people. No one knows why they disappeared or why they hadn't come back.

No one knows who could be next.

The most recent victim was a week ago and the case already went cold. An older man, living alone towards the edge of town, the only person who really had regular contact with him was his caretaker who came over from the nursing home to check on him. A kindly old man who came to the local knitting circles occasionally and as of last Monday has dropped off the face of the earth.

Since then nowhere in town really feels calm. People are tense, nervous, jumpy. Wondering, could I be next? Would they be the next name on the headlines? Their children? Their neighbors? The woods became well-travelled with people going out in groups trying to find the victims, or any trace of them. They wondered who would have to call out the next search party, who would stay up waiting for texts from their loved ones.

To many, it was agony.

Posters went up around town, with numbers to hotlines for information attached. Grainy black and white photos with descriptions underneath. Age, height, weight, anything that could help. As if people in town weren't already painfully aware of the absences. More in school assemblies, showing strategies to stay safe. Be cautious around strangers, tell trusted people where you are, don't stay out too late. Things that should be common sense, but are repeated and drilled into our brains.

Make sure you and those you care about stay safe. Make sure no one else is taken.

The thing is, we don't even know if people are being taken. It's definitely the most popular theory, one I could be inclined to believe. Too many coincidences to be just a case of someone running away or starting a new life. The thing is where would they go? Where would they be taken? Where could they be kept? Some cabin in the woods? Already checked out, there are only old ranger stations - completely abandoned.

So Steinham's at a standstill. A police force that lets the cases go cold in filing cabinets. Missing posters that are worn down from the fall weather. A community mentally at its wit's end.

And then there's me. Chapter 3

If you talked to a psychological professional, it's probably not healthy to obsess over death. If you talked to me, I'd say it's fine as long as you limit yourself. Don't make it your whole life and all that. Everything's good in moderation.

The thing is death is all around us. From the time we're a child we see celebrities die, relatives pass away, and attend funerals. Death is a fact of life, just one most people want to avoid. People are scared of endings, no one wants to leave. So they shame death, ignore it, and hope it goes away. But death is still there. It sneaks up on you, and then you can't prepare for it. If something is hidden, you'll end up finding it again.

Death is just an end to something. Death of a story, death of an author, death of a legacy. A funeral for a friendship, mourning what could've been. All things come to an end, but they should come to an end in the right way: naturally.

So what do you do when that doesn't happen? I don't have an answer to that. I could tell you to celebrate the life they had, or I could tell you to seek out the justice they deserve. That's what I would do.

That's what I'm going to do.

See, I don't think Steinham is plagued with cases of people being taken in the middle of the night, in fact, I think it's much grimmer. I'm talking murder. Kidnapping doesn't make any logical sense to me. There's nowhere to go. I've lived in this town all my life. It's not big by any means and the only place you could get lost are the woods, and even those have been searched to death. Or at least it feels like it has.

The woods are big, spanning at least a thousand square miles surrounding the town. But no bigger than an acre. There are trails leading up, around, through, and across. Steinham is big on hiking, there's a culture around it. I mean, if you can count forest walks hiking. Groups go out and come back over the course of days or just the night.

There is a possibility of some cabin in the pit of the forest. That is always a possibility, but it just doesn't seem likely. I can't imagine it. Because there's no way that no one would know about it. Some teens would find it to graffiti and vandalize and blab about it their friends. Word would get out and it would've been searched by now.

I might be idealistic, someone could be keeping secrets. Or they could've been taken out of town, out of state. But why would the kidnapper come back? No ransom's been issued, this isn't a movie. The victims aren't inherently connected, and honestly, they seem too random.

It feels like there are too many holes, too many what-ifs.

So my theory stands.

But I could be wrong. Death, murder especially is terrifying and can impact a community in so many bad ways. I have no proof outside my gut and an unhealthy interest in true crime. What would I know? Nothing, so far. Really I might be crazy. A theory that popped into my brain during a bout of insomnia should not be taking over my brain like this. But it's all I can focus on, all I've been able to focus on.

It doesn't make sense.

So I'll make it make sense. I'll research. That's a start. Research and obsess even more. Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll actually find something. What I'm saying is it wouldn't hurt to try. I could start somewhere small, keep a journal. Find information, read the newspaper, talk to their families. Maybe not that last one, that would cause more pain than good.

I want to be sure I'm correct before I do anything drastic.

How would I even get confirmation? Finding a corpse is hard, especially if it might not even exist. You can't just purchase one at the general store. No Costco is going to take an expired coupon for even more expired stock.

The detectives on the big screen never seem to have trouble solving murders. There's always some clue, some sign of what they need to find. Otherwise, it wouldn't be interesting watching some balding man in his forties wander around a city.

That's what I need, a clue.

But I'd have to find it myself. I've always wanted to be a detective, who says I can't be a DIY one? Do my own investigations, find my own clues. It's like those Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novels you could pick up for a dollar at the laundromat. Except for way gorier (hopefully not). I don't know if I could handle seeing another corpse. The sight is still burned into my brain. Honestly the smell too, that's never going away.

If I am correct... what will I find?

A corpse might be the obvious guess but that can't be it. A note? A journal proclaiming the killer's hate for the victims? A calling card? The murder weapon?

And what do I tell the police, if I go to them? Do I go to them?

Maybe it's better just to investigate, and not to pursue. Just.... gather information. That's it. Get enough information to know what is actually happening and then maybe present it to the police? Would they do anything then? Would it just stuff the files at the bottom of some officer's desk? Better not. Not yet. I just need enough to prove I'm correct.

God, I want to not be correct.

I can't say how happy I would be that I'm going on some mad goose chase to distract myself. If I was just some crazed teenager with an overactive imagination. But on the other hand, the thrill of investigation is so tempting. That rush you get when the hero wins the fight, when the truth comes to light about the evil king. Except you could be the hero. I could be the hero, I could save our town.

I could find the truth.

I could be better than all the other self-made detectives out there. Those internet podcasters and ghost chasers. I'd be an icon, a household name. Hari Dhawan, hero of Steinham.

But what kind of hero am I sitting around giving myself imaginary laurels?

I need a game plan.

What are the steps to any investigation? Simple. Planning, data collection, analyzing the data, and taking action or reporting. Right now I'm at the planning stage, making a bulletin board of red string in my mind. It's been an idea brewing for at least a day or two. My plan? To people watch around town until I see something weird. It's non-invasive, easy, and not all that suspicious.

It's become second nature to be aware of anyone who could be a threat, anyone you don't know. Tension is high and no one seems to be relaxed. Be wary of anyone who comes up to you, mothers tell their kids. Don't talk to strangers. Don't be alone with anyone you don't know. Never go into the woods alone.

It's almost become a cautionary tale.

Like the boogie man under your bed, except the boogie man's taken Kathy down the street and you could be next.

That's why I'm laying low, staying back. Observing. People know me, people trust me. I don't want people to think I'm the kidnapper. That I'm the problem. But it would look natural to just watch. It's what everyone's been doing anyway. Make sure no one takes them. Better to be paranoid than lost.

And maybe that's what I am. Paranoid. I don't think it's a bad thing. My dad has started putting up security cameras. My mom signed up at my dojo, which is both comforting and surreal. My sister has started travelling in packs with her friends, never going anywhere alone. And me? I've started theorizing about murderers. Everyone copes in their own way I guess.

And some people have been coping worse than others.

I've heard rumors around town. Whispers that some people haven't left their houses in weeks. They've started hoarding, burrowing away supplies. Keeping their doors locked and shades drawn. It's honestly more concerning than those who make themselves known, make sure people can see them and perceive them. Make sure they'd know if they go missing too.

Is squirreling away really the way to protect yourself? I wouldn't know, I don't think I would survive if I cut myself off from my family. But at least those who have locked themselves in let people check on them. Let people know they're alive, they're here, they're breathing.

To me, being a detective is about uncovering what really is happening in the world. Being the one to bring justice to light. But it's also about being honest, not letting yourself have a bias. Not thinking you're above the people you work with or for.

So I'll be honest. I'm just as scared as anyone else. I haven't been sleeping well and it shows if my mom's comments on how visible my dark circles have become are any indication. And looking in the mirror I can tell she's right. They stand out, even against my dark skin. I've never been one to cover them up, but they are starting to get bad.

I should go to sleep, take advantage of the few hours I have left before school. But instead, I take in what I see before me. A week-old brown sweater, fraying at the seams. The undershirt I have, barely covering my binder. Black jeans, of which I only have two pairs. Three necklaces that are too tangled for my lack of energy. My trenchcoat hanging over my chair, notebook still in the pocket. Black studs and a pair of small black hoops I really should take out before I sleep. The rings my mom gave me as a birthday gift. Chipped black nail polish, charcoal smudges on my fingertips.

All of it bits of my daily dress up, letting me look my best while I deteriorate on the inside.

I see more. My overgrown undercut. Bangs that fall over my eyebrows, free of their usual styling products. The stubble on my jaw I haven't shaved. The crinkle by my brows. The curve of my nose before dipping down, accentuated by my nose ring. The downturn of my lips, a natural frown I've always tried to fix by smiling at everything and everyone. The square-framed glasses, perched high on my nose, that I really need to wear more.

My true self, the pieces I'm stuck with. The pieces I embrace. The self I can't fix and can only break. The self I'm comfortable in, like a lived-in couch. Cozy and familiar, easily fitting into my home. Old and sturdy.

Something I would never get rid of.

But yet that couch can break. It can wear down, stain. You can try to fix it and sew the stuffing back in. But it'll remain broken until you get help. That's how I feel. I've been living in nothing but sweaters and jeans since I started obsessing over this idea, this concept. I'm worn, exhausted, exhilarated. It's a problem.

And I can only imagine how much worse it will get after more time passes. Time is a merciless master and we are but her disciples. Or something like that.

Who really knows what we'll find if given the time to search it out?

Chapter 4

I'll be the first person to say I know nothing about city planning. It's just one of those things you don't think about unless you have to. Or unless you're really curious about why they named that one street in California Zzyzx Road. It's on the same level as etymology - you look it up at 3 am and then forget about it.

There are different parts to it too. Zoning, neighborhood planning, electrical, etc. I don't actually know the names of the specialties, I just know we have an HOA that complains about our yard decorations and people who organize electrical repairs.

Of course, city planning is important, but it feels like every place does it differently.

New York has grids, rows of streets crisscrossing through and across each other. Boston seems to say fuck all and let the planning to the dogs, and I've never been to LA. Most towns seem to be random, neighborhoods cut through by main roads and a downtown that holds all the towns except for the corner stores or Starbucks. The closer to the highway, the harder it is to walk around.

It makes no sense to me.

Especially since the towns nestled in forests or spread out by the sea differ from those lining the freeways. But no matter where you go, sidewalks are a myth anywhere outside of downtown. This is one thing I've learned recently.

See, I've been people-watching. It's the easiest way to keep track of things, to investigate. And no one thinks I'm too weird for it - everyone else is doing it too.

So during my free time, when I'm not at the library, I've been walking around town. I get my exercise and note anything weird going on. And you'd think this would be quick, but Steinham is bigger than I thought it was. Most of it is made up of residential areas, rows of houses fitting tightly together. These'll be broken up by parks and gas stations, but this is what I've been spending most of my time and it's all starting to look the same.

I'll leave school, usually one of the first ones out the door, and just start walking. The school's right next to downtown, in the center so students travel inwards and not to one corner or another. Get to the Main St, plug my headphones in. Choose a direction, keep walking. Try to vary my destination, my journey. Not really know where I'm going. Stop by my house since it's close by. Drop my stuff off, grab my notebooks.

Keep walking.

Go through the motions. Pick a street that's not too deserted, walk towards the end. Watch the houses. Wave to people you know, people you've seen around town. Don't make suspicion for yourself. Say you're just taking a walk, say you're doing it for the exercise. Take notes on your phone. Pretend you're texting someone. Stop for snacks. Start walking again. Repeat.

Pick a new street. Repeat. Go down a path, go through a park. Don't drive yourself into insanity looking for something that you don't know how to find. Repeat. Make sure you're in control. Repeat. Keep yourself safe.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I think I've worn a line through the neighborhoods of houses that I'm starting to know by heart. My classmates live in some, my teachers in others. The manager at the CVS lives in that blue one on the corner. Right foot then left foot, I walk while music blasts in my ears, each day a different playlist, album, artist.

It feels like pure insanity. Yet I feel fully free. The thrill of the chase, this slow meandering chase. A victim I don't know the face of. A case I've only just opened. And I'm hoping to open it up wide.

After a week or two, I get tired of walking around houses. I've made enough rounds to know it's safe, like a guard patrolling a museum at night. Here, at least, I can lay my search to rest.

So I turn to downtown. The heart of Steinham. The beating, living heart, the one place I hope there's no blood being spread. Ironic, isn't it? A heart needs blood flowing through it, to keep it pumping, pumping, pumping. But this heart instead has people. In and out, back and forth. Weaving through each other, creating a mass in a space that is wide open. They come and go. To work, to school, to shop.

Buy a sandwich. Clean their cars. Pick up their kids.

Movement is the only defining feature of the center of Steinham. And it wasn't always like this.

Such a short amount of time has passed since this self-made hell started and yet the frenzy is real. People want to be near others, seeing each other, believing they won't be next. They gather in the center, the open layout suiting to their needs perfectly.

It's always hot, it's always crowded and it's always busy. But most importantly it's always full of people.

Emotions have been running high for over a month and it doesn't show any sign of stopping. But unlike the quiet fear that permeates through the neighborhoods, spreading up and around the yards and houses, this is a loud fear. It's full of adrenaline, full of the rush. A rush that gets you caught up in it, not even thinking twice about joining the fuss.

I might be overexaggerating here, but it sure doesn't feel like it. Shopping for groceries has never been more stressful, and it's never helped by the posters of those we've lost looming over the shoulders of shoppers. Being their own version of a grim reminder of their uncertain fates.

I've come to the conclusion that Steinham is a spiral. The downtown is the center, congregated by shops and hot panic, that slowly winds around it, moving out, and calming down. Cooling off. And here I was, standing at the center of that spiral - the eye of the store. Which was... a Costco.

It's tall, white, and worn down. Families and shopping carts go in and out, a constant stream of traffic at the entrance. I don't like going in there, it's always loud and so impossibly bright. The ceilings are 2 floors above the shoppers yet they seem to glare into my eyes every time I step in there. That combined with the sound of squeaky tires and constant yelling is a headache waiting to happen.

Unfortunately for me, my mom needed groceries and I was in the area. So instead of my usual wander into the neighborhood, I headed straight to pick up milk and eggs, among other things. It might've been annoying but at least it gave me the push I needed to start my observing of downtown. I'll admit, it's been something I've dreaded.

I like people. I like talking to people and being around them. I'm not an extrovert by any means, but I don't hate being social. It's crowds of people I hate. Being surrounded on all sides by loud chattering just makes my skin crawl. I'm never claustrophobic until those moments. So yes, I've been avoiding downtown, but avoid I will no longer.

The downtown is formatted almost like a four-leaf clover, with 4 parking lots with plazas attached surrounding a small park. It has an open layout and is usually a nice place to sit around. Families populate the grass, trying to enjoy the last pleasant days before winter hits, parents watching their children run around. The playground is crowded and so is the fountain.

Another day I would grab a bench and just watch, but today I have milk that won't last forever so I need to be quick. Crossing through the park, I wave to some of my classmates while trying to figure out which plaza to check out today.

The one to the north is mainly clothing stores, big-name stores mixed with some smaller boutiques. There's a jewelry store I've shopped at for Mother's Day but outside of that, I don't go there much. To the east are the cafes, bed and breakfasts, a diner, and a shoe repair store that bought out the old pub. There's a great coffee shop there, somewhere I love going on the weekends and touching up my journals with some tea. West has a laundromat, Target, and some restaurants. And south...

South is closest to the forest, bordering where the hiking paths don't go. Most people don't think much of it, but I'm creeped out by it. Something's not right there, no matter how innocent the stores there are - just some smaller supply stores, a gym, and a dance academy. I avoid it, but today I don't think I have a choice. I have to challenge myself, get my hands dirty. I need to prioritize the case.

After all, the best detectives have to face their fears at some point.

Chapter 5

The first building I see to the south is the deli.

It's not even really a deli. It's a butcher's shop that offers measly sandwiches and name-brand sodas. But it's the closest to a deli Steinham will ever get, the meat section at Hannaford doesn't count.

I don't think I've ever been inside it, only seen it while waiting for my mom to pick up supplies for her day job as a chef. It's a smallish building between the dance school and a bakery, white stone front melding with the greyish sidewalk to make it something you're eyes sort of glaze over. You know it's there but you'll never think about it, like most shops you don't frequent.

The windows were hazy, with vague shapes and movement beyond them. The only visible thing was a broken neon sign reading 'Open'. A sign sat outside with the shop's specials and deals. Today they were selling Fresh Pork for 5 bucks a pound and I couldn't tell if that was over or underpriced.

There's a certain image I get when I think of delis. Rows of tightly wrapped chickens and sliced hams. A sign with a pig on it, cut up by dotted lines to show how you can cook it. Turkeys, shelves filled with turkeys in the fall, maybe even venturing into some stuffing too. The butcher's shop? None of this. It's just meat, laid out in sterile white cabinets, with no flair. It's overly clean and eerily silent, only the sounds coming from the kitchen and the cash register. It feels otherworldly, liminal, even... haunting?

Lost in my thoughts, I didn't even notice when the door swung open and someone walked through. It was an older woman, upset for a reason I did not even bother to ask because all I could think about was the smell that followed her through the door.

It lingered, heavy in the air. I couldn't ignore it. It attacked my nostrils, fogged my brain, and seeped into the deepest crevices of my mind. I wouldn't be forgetting it for a long while. And like a rotting fish by the docks, it seemed.... at home by the butchers. It clung to my clothes, sewing itself into the seams of my trenchcoat and in between the fibers of my sweater. It found its home in me, marked me with its vile, ugly...

And then the door closed again.

All I could do was stand there, wondering what had just happened. Staring blankly at the slow flashing sign in the window as my brain tried to catch up with my nose. And my eyes, because as soon as the door closed there was a figure at the window. I couldn't see them at first but as soon as I could I swear my brain stopped working.

Fuck were they cute.

The figure obviously worked at the deli. He was a boy no older than 19, but not someone Hari recognized from school. Standing at an easy six-foot, he stretched the length of the window and didn't even appear to be trying as he lazily washed them. Clearing away the fog, apparently steam, he sprayed and wiped an area that let me see his face better not even realizing it.

I could tell he wasn't fully in the moment, pale face slack and relaxed as he went through the motions. Lost in another world, he wouldn't notice me staring. Thank fuck, that would be embarrassing.

He was wearing a simple white T-shirt blue jeans, both slightly stained red at the edges and in random splatters. The stains didn't look fresh, more like they came with the trade. A similarly stained white apron hung around his front, tied around his back, with the deli's faded logo printed on the chest. His sunken, tired eyes perched between a thick nose, his thin lips below in a bored line, no emotion coming through. He looked vaguely Slavic, my best guess was he was of Russian descent.

Thin platinum hair fell over his face and down his neck, stopping at his shoulders. There was a curve to it as if he wore it up on a regular basis. A spattering of freckles drew attention back to his eyes, which were an almost electric blue. Compared to the dull greys of his clothes and the store, they were captivating, bringing life back to the scene. There was black eyeliner smudged at the edges, accentuating them even more.

He had a simple beauty to him, a quiet handsomeness. I felt like I could look at him for hours and still get lost - like wandering a garden through moonlight. He was muscular, clearly from manual labor. Considering where he worked it made sense, but it didn't stop my eyes from tracing his shoulders down to his arms and back to his eyes. God, his eyes.

Beautiful eyes that were staring right back at mine. Shit.

They had lost their distant look and were now full of confusion, yet more expressive than I had ever seen. He dropped his hands from where they were wiping and gestured back to the shop, almost asking if I was coming inside. His movements were slow, wary, not sure what I was doing or where this would lead. It almost startled me, embarrassment filling me to the core. I had been caught.

To not make it weirder I turned to the shop, trying to figure out whether I should enter. If I did I'd have to explain why I was just standing and staring, but I would actually get to talk to him. Maybe even get to know him. And if I left it would leave an impression on him, but not a good one. Yet I could avoid the confrontation I was convinced was behind that door.

My urge to know more about him won over and I moved towards the door.

A small chime rang through the shop as I entered. The smell from earlier was back, but it was muted, mixing in with the other smells throughout the room. There was an overwhelming smell of meat, something I recognized from helping my mom in the kitchen. There was also a lighter smell, most likely the spices and salt used on the meat to keep it fresh.

The shop was layout out with packaged meat on shelves against one wall, with the rest in a refrigerated shelf on the other. Opposite to that was the counter, smaller products lined up behind it, and an entry to the window on the right. All the way in the back was a darkened hallway, the employee's break room, and storeroom. I could hear the faint sound of knives and a grinder machine but opted to ignore it.

The worker waved me over and so I followed.

"So, you lost or something?" he asks, voice gruff and low.

I laugh nervously, not really sure what to say.

A quiet settles over the shop, only the sound of whirring audible, as my mind is racing. I need an excuse for why I'd be here, staring at the shop. No thoughts in my head, but so many at the same time. It's a deli, so I have to be buying meat. Or whatever else they sell here. An idea starts to form, my mind whirling as the worker keeps staring at me. My mom's a chef, she would need meat, since I don't eat it on my own. I could be buying some for her but get confused, nervous even.

The worker looks even warier of me and speaks up again, "You in there? There anything going on up there or what?"

"Sorry, sorry, I zone out a lot," I start off with, trying to look as nervous as I feel, "You see, I was sent to buy some meat for my mom and uh, I've never done it before?"

"You got intimidated.... By buying meat?" He asks, looking genuinely puzzled, even amused?

I smile sheepishly, "Yeah. I did. Anxiety and all that. It's a shop I've never been to, so it's... scary, y'know?"

"Uh, sure."

"So I ended up zoning out, lost in my thoughts and I guess my eyes just wandered over to you," I say as I look away, still thoroughly embarrassed.

I stare out the door, eyes half-blinded by the natural light outside before I hear a small tapping and turn back. The worker, whose name I still don't know, was rapping his fingers on the counter as if to get my attention. Looking back up at his face, he was smiling softly.

"Hey, it's ok. Everyone gets nervous sometimes, even if yours manifests in interesting ways."

It's obviously a play to make me feel better and it works, making me laugh slightly.

I counter, "Me staring at you isn't even the worst part. The reason is the most embarrassing part."

He's obviously interested but doesn't want to ask.

"While it's true I was nervous about going in and zoned out, I didn't stop staring for uh, different reasons," I explain.

The worker gestures with his hand as if saying for me to continue.

"Well," I hesitate, "It's because I thought you were cute."

There. Out with it. Nothing I can do but wait and-

The worker starts laughing, trying to hide it, one eye open. I laugh with him, over the ridiculity of this situation. I should be more angry but I just can't help it, his smile is fucking gorgeous. A little lopsided, its wide and genuine. Perfect.

Calming down a little but still laughing he continues, "I'm sorry, but that wasn't what I was expecting at all. Y'know I can't remember the last time someone said that to me."

"You sure are brave for saying it though, after that bad of a first impression," he jokes.

"Well it's true. It's very important to say the truth," I joke back.

He smiles, smaller now but still genuine, and leans down towards me. He's half a foot taller than me so his head is resting on one hand with the elbow on the counter. Our faces are way too close but I'm frozen in place. The situation is so bizarre I might as well roll with it.

"Well it's good to know you're honest. Say, how about we start over, I'd like to properly meet you Mr. Stranger, since you didn't even give me your name yet," he straightens slightly and offers his hands, "I'm Silas."

Taking his hand, I give it a shake.

"Hari."

"Pleasure to meet you, Hari. That's a lovely name, y'know?" he says as he shakes back.

"Thanks! I chose it myself."

This gets a laugh out of him. He finishes the handshake and smiles wide. He's got a firm grip, strong but surprisingly clean for a deli. I guess he wears gloves. Good on him, having proper hygiene.

"So, Hari, you live around here?"

I take my hand back, "Yeah! On the other side of town, but my school's near the center. Speaking of, are you a highschooler? I don't think I've seen you around but you can't be that old."

"Glad to know I look my age," he chuckles, "Technically no, since I dropped out two years ago. I've been helping my dad around his shop while getting my GED."

He gestures around the room. It hits me that this might be a family run business. Huh.

"So you're what, 17? 18?"

"18. You?"

"Oh, I'm a senior. I'll be off to college next year if my mom doesn't recruit me to help in her kitchen for a year. She runs a local restaurant across the way."

"Neat, so it's not weird for me to ask you to get coffee later. Age wise, I mean," he says nonchalantly.

This catches me off guard, "What?"

"Oh, y'know. Since you so honestly said you thought I was cute, I thought I might return the favor," he says leaning in again with a smile, "I happen to think you're pretty cute too. Especially with the whole sweater vest thing we have going on."

"It's just a regular sweater! Just because I'm wearing a shirt under it doesn't mean it's a vest," I start before realizing what else he said, "Oh."

"Oh?"

"I, uh, didn't process the first part. But sure, I'd love that. Really."

Silas smiles, even wider than he did before and started rumaging around in his pockets. Before I could ask him what he was doing he pulled out his phone, handing it to me.

"Put your number in so I can text you, ok?"

I nodded, before adding myself in his contacts with a quick selfie. He chuckled at that, but before he could say anything (and before I could hand back his phone) the back door slammed open.

Shit.

Chapter 6

The room is silent, tense.

Silas doesn't say anything, so I follow his lead. He doesn't even look in the direction of the door. It's hard to read the expression on his face, a dark contrast to the smile I already miss. He seems wary, resolved, tired. Keeping himself focused on the counter as if it's the most interesting thing in the room, he ignores the footsteps nearing us. I, on the other hand, am deathly curious. Turning my head as I slowly place his phone back onto the counter I see... a man?

He's in a suit covered by a big bulking jacket, so it's hard to tell. Standing in a doorway with the light flooding around him, he looms quiet as a shadow. His torso is wider across than it is tall, accompanied by big arms filling up the sleeves of his coat. A square head sits on top, hair buzzed short and stubble overgrown. Scowl set deep into his face with wrinkles, his thick eyebrows hang low and angry.

"Silas," comes his first words. Low, angry, and suffocating.

Silas tilts his head towards him, showing he's listening but not making eye contact. He's shaking ever so slightly. Is this his dad? It's a wild concept, this cold man in comparison to how warm Silas seems.

The man continues while moving more into the shop, "Is this boy a customer?"

"Yes sir," comes the quiet reply.

The man is silent at that, before turning towards me. Face to face, even the slight height he has on me makes me feel stuck in my spot. Like my feet are melted into the floor and all I can do is stand under his stare. Dull grey eyes with no happiness, so contrasted to the electric blue I wished I was staring into. Reaching into the depths of my soul, pulling out all the wrongness and crimes I was committing in his mind.

"Has he bought anything?" came the next question.

"No, sir."

This reply was quiet, almost murmured. Like this was a confession ripped from his throat, not willing and not wanted.

The butcher turned quickly, almost forceful, "And how long was this boy standing here?"

Silas finally looked up from the counter, first to me. I barely knew him, this captivating kid I had seen through foggy glass, but I think I would do just about anything for him. I always had the bad habit of falling headfirst and into someone's arms and when someone looked at me like that... Concern and pity and wanting to leave and stay with me. Keep the warmth going, that happiness that I hadn't even noticed until it had been interrupted. So many emotions in those eyes.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably a few seconds, he looked up to his father.

"He was here for twenty minutes, we were talking."

The scowls set in even further, wrinkles cutting deep with disappointment. A glare passes between the two, a private argument between father and son. The quiet draws out, tense, but finally, the father speaks.

"Serve him or get him out of my shop. You know we don't tolerate loitering."

And with that, he leaves for the back room again.

The store is still. Like a lake with no waves, never moving and almost frozen. They stay still water isn't safe, that you shouldn't drink it. Dangerous with bacteria in it, unless it's bottled. But can natural still water give the illusion of safety, mimicking its filtered counterpart? Because the store seems safe, just me and Silas and the ever-present whirring of a meat grinder. But the short encounter put a damper on him, on me. For now, all we can do is stare.

I'm the first to move, breaking eye contact to head to the door. I'm intruding, obviously, and I just want to leave.

Before I can, Silas catches my wrist, "Wait."

I turn to him and he seems to snap out of whatever instinct pushed him to do that. He pulls his hand back but doesn't look away, instead looking sheepishly at me.

"You don't have to go just yet. Didn't you have to get something? For your mom?"

I nod, before looking around the store, "I don't really know what to get. I didn't plan this far ahead."

Considering that, he moves out behind the counter for the first time and walks towards the shelves. Looking through them he calls back, "Well what does she usually cook?

"I don't usually look at her recipe books but chicken and mutton? She also cooks with pork sometimes."

Silas hums in acknowledgment before grabbing a bunch of things, types of chicken and other meats I don't recognize. He pauses by what looks like a spice rack before looking back at me, waiting for a response. He must want to know if I need any.

"Grab some cumin, saffron, and cayenne powder. We've been running low on them," I say before pausing, "Oh! And chili powder."

And like that, they were in his hands, as he moved to one final shelf filled with seafood. Another look towards me.

"Salmon, bass, and mackerel if you have it. I think that's it, can I check out?"

Silas nods, head moving slowly with exhaustion as he makes his way back to the counter. Silence persists as he checks me out, head lulling and eyes not meeting mine. He looks worn out and I just want to take him with me. Handing me my bag he gives me a small smile before waving me out of the building, his phone still laying on the counter.

Stepping back out into the crisp fall air felt like a betrayal and a relief. Only an hour had passed and yet it felt like night was about to break with how drained I was. Exhaustion wore at the edges of my mind as it always did after intense moments and I knew I needed a break. A plan started forming as I walked along: I'd go home to drop off the meat which would go bad otherwise, and then I'd head to the library to relax.

A mental inventory of tasks grew in my head the closer I got to my house. Notes I needed to copy down, books I needed to return. I had solidified my afternoon as soon as I stepped into my kitchen.

My mom was washing dishes when I came in, having finished her day job around the time I ended school. My dad came home later, needing to wrap up teacher things for the night and Anisha was out with friends. So it was just me and my mom, not a bad combo if you ask me.

Putting down the bag on the counter I called out to her, "Got some food, please don't ask why."

She looked over at me, unimpressed.

"You know I will have to ask now. Why do you have two bags of food with you? Neither of them are Costco."

Oh shit, I forgot Costco. Opening my backpack, I put those bags on the counter too.

"Now I'm even more curious," she says, walking over to the bags and rummaging around, "You got... spices? And chicken? Did you want to cook tonight or is this a very late and lazy birthday gift?"

She hands me back the bag, expecting an answer. I just move to the cabinets and start putting things away. First the spices, then the milk and eggs in the fridge, and last the meat in the freezer. Slowly, to calm my mind and unwind, letting the methodical nature of it wash me away. Finally, I turn to my mom, too tired to pretend and answer.

"I got distracted walking by the butcher's shop and ended up staring at a worker. To not seem weird I went in and bought something before coming home."

"Were you out on your hunt again?" she asked matter-of-factly.

I shifted, uncomfortable. I was well aware my parents knew how I spent my afternoons, not seeing much reason in lying to them. Everyone was coping differently with... everything, but I still felt uneasy when they mention it. As if they were seeing right through my defenses. But such is the nature of parents, they somehow always know.

I speak after a moment, "Yes, but I didn't get anywhere. Just a new friend and someone to look out for. The owner is creepy."

"Oh? Did you befriend the worker?"

Not meeting her eyes I answered, "Something like that..."

"So you didn't befriend him? You just stared at him and left?"

"Well- no I befreinded him. Sort of. We're meeting up for coffee tomorrow."

At this, she hummed for a minute before looking back at me, eyes twinkling with amusement, "Is he at least cute?"

"I'm not answering that!" I say leaving the kitchen as fast as I could.

I swear I could hear her chuckling to herself as I climbed the stairs. But it was hard to hear anything over my pounding heartbeat. I wasn't that transparent was I?

Who am I kidding, of course I was.

My heart slowed to a normal pace as I reached the top of the staircase, but my mind was still racing. Unable to get Silas's eyes out of my head, I quickened my pace to get to my room as soon as I could. His smile, his laugh... Shit shit shit. I had it bad and I had barely known him for an hour.

Groaning, I flopped onto my bed, face pressed flat into my pillow.

I lay there for a while, just contemplating my life's choices. I was about to condemn myself to my life deep in my blankets, drowning in my own besotted fantasies, when my phone buzzed. This confused me as I could have sword it was in my jacket, which hung over on my desk. Then my face flushed - Silas. I had given him my number, moving my phone to my pocket to make sure I got his text. What if it was him?

Checking my phone before I lost my nerve, what I saw confirmed it. Four messages from an unknown number, all within the last hour or so.

[4:10] hey, this is silas :)

The next one is timestamped half an hour later.

[4:32] hey i'm really sorry about that

[4:33] he only stopped lecturing me just now, i didn't know how worked up he would get. he's super possessive about his store, it's stupid

[4:35] are you still up for coffee tomorrow?

At that, I smile to myself.

[4:45] Of course!

[4:45] Are you doing ok? You seemed scared back in the shop.

Putting my phone down, I moved to go pack a bag for the library when my phone pings again.

[4:46] yea, don't worry about me.

[4:46] this is normal

A frown pulled on my face. Well, now I was going to worry even more.

But I'm not about to say that to him.

[4:48] Ok... Just take care of yourself.

[4:49] I have to go to the library, talk later?

[4:50] i just got off my shift, could i meet you there?

The smile on my face was ridiculous, but it didn't matter. My face felt warm and I was all giddy. For once all the thoughts rushing through my head are silent because this decision is unanimous.

[4:52] Absolutely.

Chapter 7

The library is one of my favorite places in town.

It's near the high school, only a ten-minute walk there or back. It was further from my house, but I always enjoyed the trip. I had grabbed some notebooks and my laptop from my room, as well as the stack of books I need to return. All of it packed into my satchel and thrown over my shoulder, the bag sitting at my hip as I head out. Trenchcoat swapped out for a shorter jacket, I can feel the wind in my hair and on my shoulders.

Wind is almost a constant the further you get into fall. A light breeze darts around your legs as you walk from class. Gusts make the multicolored leaves float and dance through the air, golden brown shining in the sun. Leftover drafts from a storm push against you in the chilled mornings. I love it.

I'm never truly cold in the fall. Wrapped up with shirts, sweaters, and jackets, the wind simply greets me like an old friend. It keeps me company on my walks and today the slow push of it draws me to the library as quiet violins play through my headphones. Nothing like soft classical music to put you in the mood for fall. Usually, I might tune in to one of the variety of crime-centered podcasts I follow, but today I need a break.

As I walk along, I feel that for the first time today I can breathe. A rare moment in a town constantly on the edge. The built-up stress and adrenaline from the deli slowly winding out of my body into the wind, leaving only a kind of peace and the uncharted excitement of Silas.

Silas.

I was going to meet Silas!

The ridiculous giddiness from earlier hit me full force and I laughed happily to myself. I hadn't screwed it up, I really hadn't screwed it up. Despite the lingering embarrassment of the whole thing, I had really (somehow) landed a date, or even just a friend. A surprisingly good-natured man despite his deadpan resting face, I know that to Silas I had probably looked like a flustered idiot the whole time. And he still wanted to get to know me!

I had never been one for dating, going through crushes in grade school without much action. My mother would tease me that I fell hard but never got picked up from the ground, which was sad if not true. I wasn't going to complain, I enjoyed the alone time I had. I had family, I had friends, I had acquaintances. I wasn't alone. But even so, the thought that someone liked me like that, that someone could love me for me...

It was enough to make my face heat up and my heart start beating faster, faster. The cool air makes my face feel like it's burning and I'm almost lightheaded with it.

Shit, I really have it bad.

I try to think of other things, of school assignments and cooking recipes, to cool myself down. It works enough that by the time I've reached the stairs of the library my face is no longer stained red and I feel like I can breathe again.

The library is tall, standing proud three stories high. Made of stone with vines growing up and around it, the building feels like something out of a book. Trees taller than a house provide it shade while letting enough light seep into the windows. Stairs leading up to a simple stone archway welcome you with a simple wooden door. The inside isn't as grand, but instead can only be described as cozy. There are workspaces, computer areas, the sort. Getting lost in the isles seems more and more appealing, bookshelves and ceiling tiles looming over me as I try to find a place to wait.

Silas hasn't texted me since earlier and it's starting to make me nervous. We agreed vaguely to meet in the young adult's section and now I'm here, sitting on a beanbag in the corner, trying not to look like I'm nervous. I'm near the romance section which just feels ironic. Picking up a random paperback some kid dropped nearby, I leaf through it for a bit. It's... something about werewolves and a baby? Weird.

It takes me way too many pages to realize that I brought my laptop and notebooks with me and that I was originally intending to use them. Pushing off the chair, I walk over towards the desk and place my bag down. Laptop: open, notebooks: out, pencil: ready.

Let's take some notes.

Copying over the shorthand notes I take throughout the day is a sort of meditation for me. After a while, I can fall into a rhythm of copying and researching. I have a big notebook with sections for each day, sort of like a diary, then I also have a drive with research relating to buildings, cases, and the like. It's all pretty organized and is close to my pride and joy.

Going through my bullets about the deli I can't help but wonder about the owner, the tall man who had practically shooed me out of his store. Of course, it's private property and he can do what he wants with his business, but it still strikes me as odd how insistent he was that I leave. Before I can get too far into my thoughts I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Hey," came the voice I'd be waiting to hear all afternoon.

Turning around I see Silas standing awkwardly by a shelf. Gone is the stained shirt and apron and in their place is a comfy-looking black hoodie over those same jeans. His hood is up and his eyes are downcast and red. It looks like he might've been crying. Not really sure what to do and not wanting him to feel out of place I gesture to the seat next to me - an offer he eagerly takes.

"So." he starts quietly.

"So?"

He looks down and away from me, hands wringing each other as if they were a wet towel and it needed to be dried yesterday.

"So you've met my dad and I didn't want you to since I barely knew you and he was going to scare you away. And then I wouldn't be able to get to know you which might seem weird but you seem really nice and we like work well off each other. And I could always be reading into things but you seem to be into me and I'm kinda pretty sure I'm into you and I'm being stupid and rambling," he takes a deep breath, almost to calm his frantic mutterings and anxious hands, "What I'm trying to say is... could we start again?"

I go to say something but he just keeps going, "Because you messed up and I messed and it was a whole awkward mess that I'm probably never going to forget but I don't want to go forward with you thinking I'm weird or me thinking you're a creep, which I totally don't, and-"

Gently, to not startle him, I put my hand on his arm.

"I'd love that."

He must've seen my smile when I replied because not a second later his face is beaming, that warmth coming back so quick it feels like whiplash. What I wouldn't do to see this boy I don't even know smile like that forever, the gentle tug on the corners, the lopsidedness of it, so genuine with relief that he doesn't even notice. Relaxing his shoulders he takes his hand back and does this jerky shuffle with the chair to face me.

As I move to do the same, I see his hand move, outstretching to mine.

He smiles again, softer, and speaks, "Hey, I'm Silas. I like grilled cheese with onions, audiobooks, and 90's rock. I also hate my job but it's all I've got while I do my GED. I hate beaches and really want to go to Norway. If I was a shape I'd be a spiral, what about you?"

Taking his hand I answer, "I'm Hari, I can't cook, I love romance and mystery novels and I want to be a detective. I own way too many brown sweaters but my favorite color is red. I really like true crime and I've been told I think too much."

Silas looks at me, insistent, "And what shape would you be?"

"What are we, in kindergarten?" I laugh, " I'd be a droplet because my mind is always moving and water is deep and stuff."

"Did you really want to be Sherlock Holmes when you were little?"

"Yea, why?"

"I can tell."

I snort at this and we lapse into comfortable silence.

Silas is the first to speak, breaking the silence softly, "You know I always liked the library. I'm a big history nerd but I never got to do anything about it besides read through the nonfiction section here. There's a shelf of history books in the corner over there, mainly on the world wars but a few on smaller subjects like the Romanov's and stuff."

"The Russian monarchy? Like Rasputin?"

He perks up at this, "Yea! It took so long to find their bodies and bring them to the church for proper burials it's just so interesting."

"Huh, our interests might not be so different. I've never really been into historical true crime though."

"I wouldn't consider it all true," Silas laughs, "Anastasia sure feels like a fairy tale. Besides that, I think the story of Catherine the Great is my favorite."

"So you really like Russian history? Anything else or is your 'thing'?" I tease.

"Hmm, older cultures are pretty cool I guess. It's so cool to see what else is out there in the world, especially 'cause there's nothing really here. I just go between the shop, here and our house. It's been that way since middle school. My dad doesn't really care what I do, even when he first got me, as long as I'm not in his way."

"First got you...?"

"Oh, I'm adopted. Or foster or whatever. My parents passed away when I was 10 so he took me in, he's my uncle or something. I don't really care," he said way too nonchalantly but I wouldn't push.

"Were you born here?"

"I'm pretty sure, it's all kind of blurry," Silas sighed, "I'm sorry can we talk about something else?"

I give him a smile I hope is reassuring.

"Sure, do you want to see my favorite corner to read in?"

Chapter 8

The weeks carried on, days floating by like the leaves in the air, yesterday turning to tomorrow in a flash. I was kept busy with assignments, essays, projects, and the like. Class in the afternoons, then the dojo in the evenings, and studying into the night. Days blurred by through text conversations, breaks from the hectic senior year had started off with.

Staying up with each other became routine, talking with Silas late into the night about whatever came to mind. Life stories, books, history, the tolls of the day. I'd rant about school and the dojo, he would tell me about weird customers. I'd bring up true crime, slowly warming up to the thought of telling him about my investigations. He'd ask about my mom and I'd tell him about her latest recipes.

I'd ask about his dad and he'd go quiet.

It was getting colder yet the adrenaline of the town never settled. In fact, the more the month dragged on the worse it felt. People still were holed up, coming out less and less with the worsening weather. Yet somehow it also felt like the tension had plateaued. It was at a standstill and in it was a glimmer of hope, a moment of peace.

For me, it came with my family celebrating Diwali. Cleaning out the house and decorating gave me a break and take my mind off everything. The timing felt perfect, being able to focus on positivity instead of the suffocating anxiety that had been all around town. Especially with the candle lighting, I don't think I had seen my parents so relaxed and happy in a while. (ask for help with this section?)

School seemed to lighten up for a moment too while Halloween came and passed. The perfect mood for investigations, no weird looks while checking out criminology books at the library. Sometimes I'd see glimpses of Silas around town, but never had the time to just... talk. He'd be working and I'd be writing out notes at the cafe across the way. Sometimes he'd catch my eye and wave and just that could change my day for the better.

Once the first semester was over I now had more time again. I started making my rounds again, wandering out into the neighborhoods I had gone into earlier into the month. It would switch, one day in the square and one out on Lanes and Drives. House after house, white and grey meshing together in my mind, as I watched and waited. I had no clue what I was waiting for, a clue or a lead, but I just had the feeling that it would come.

Sometimes I'd see someone I didn't recognize and I would follow them for a while, pretending to be on my phone. But 9 times out of 10 they walked into one of the houses a few blocks in. The sidewalks are never crowded by Steinham isn't desolate. Families live tight and often packed together, 3 kids to a house making the high school feel way too big for being in the middle of the woods.

Steinham continued to live, tiny wheels whirring around in their own little anxious frenzies. A mass hysteria of people who never had to cope with anything like this. A collective fear, an overwhelming urge to survive and be seen, be heard, be known, because even though every day the time between the last victim and us grew we still don't know anything. We still obsessed, hid, observed. I still continued to hunt.

Maybe someday I'd catch a glimpse of someone who just didn't fit, who stuck out as someone who would take and take, the cause of the already month-long siege Steinham was under. We were fine, we were safe but at the same time we never really were. Anyone could be a victim, anyone could be a culprit. And as soon as my obsession faded it came back, that rut forming in my mind again, and I knew where I needed to go.

The town square was empty at this time of the day, the lunch crowd gone and the late afternoon quiet settling in. Turning to the south I face the woods again and start walking to the bleak concrete I had been avoiding since I had to leave last time. Dread crawled up my spine and into my throat, the urge to get it out, to run, building and building.

This place had cemented in my mind as a danger, warning signs flashing whenever I looked at it. The owner had left me with the impression that I was not wanted, that I was not welcome there, but I couldn't figure out why. Had I been rude? Had I been overbearing? Flirting with Silas wasn't the best course of action, but he hadn't minded. He had even reciprocated. So what had I done to be 'loitering'?

Did it really matter? Why was my heart pounding and my head clogged with worries? Why did I care so much? It could've been because it added to the anxiety I already felt from the town, or it could be that he was a storm raining on Silas, a parasite running deeper than I could ever know. Silas barely mentioned him and I had barely met him, but the one interaction I had with him told me one thing: this guy was not and will not be good news.

Yet I was willing to ignore him if it meant I got to check on Silas. This boy I had barely met, still barely knew but was learning more about every day. The boy I was slowly but surely falling for. The first person I thought of to calm my racing thoughts. It didn't escape me how ridiculous it all seemed, falling so hard and so fast. Clicking with a person that quickly just didn't happen.

Yet it had.

I could say he felt like coming home, but that's not it. To me, home was my mother's cooking. The smell of spices filling the kitchen, of new dishes and old ones. It was sitting around the table, talking and laughing. It was leaving work behind and just enjoying the time together. Home was my father's study, with books piled higher than I felt I could reach. It was weekends spent reading and comparing notes. It was helping grade his papers to try to give some mercy to his students. It was that spark of learning to fall in love with a new book. Home was being with my sister, just spending time in each other's rooms and annoying each other. It was hearing about boys and drama and in return talking about books and tv shows. It was helping her with auditions and practice. It was going to watch her shows and feeling so proud even if it was a middle school production. Home was visiting family and having them return the gesture. It was gifts and cards and sleepovers. It was holidays spent together, here or abroad.

That wasn't Silas. Silas was silent beauty, a choppy grace I could watch for hours. Eyes like the sky and hair like the stars. Strong yet never forceful. Silas was all shy smiles and teasing remarks. Lonely yet so social. Someone who had a home yet searched for one elsewhere. Fending for himself, working for his keep. Honest and tired. He has cracks I want to explore and care for. Edges that don't bother me. Softness I want to keep and pain I want to heal. A smile I want to be blinded by and a hand I want to hold.

He's intriguing, endearing and I would be happy just to have him as a friend and admire him from afar. I'm not there yet but I would be willing to believe that eventually, I would do anything for him. So my mind was made up.

I was going to brave the deli again, even if it's just to check in on Silas.

The bell rang into the empty store, ringing hollow and high. My mood was no longer anxious and frenzied but instead nervous. My run-in last time had been playing in my mind and I didn't want a repeat. But if wanted to get out of the cycle I was diving into I needed something to keep me from drowning. Even just knowing him for these two weeks has already cemented him into an anchor in my mind, and I don't think he even knows.

Silas doesn't see me as I walk in, back faced to me while he restocks some shelves. He's got his usual apron on over a faded blue t-shirt and the ever-present jeans that admittedly give me a nice view. He calls out as the bell rings, "I'll be right with you," before continuing on. I stand by the wall, hand on my bag strap as I wait.

Only a few minutes later he turns and starts, "I'm sorry for the wait, I was- Hari!"

I don't think I've ever felt happier to be the cause of that smile breaking out on his face. Walking towards him I move to give him a hug but stop. Is it too early? I don't even get a chance to follow that thought before Silas decides for me, and turns out the answer is no. Even if the hug only lasts a second I feel hyperaware of everything - his shirt, his hair tickling my face, his smile at my neck.

How right this was.

"What are you doing here?" he asks as he pulls away.

"I can't visit you?" I laugh in response, "You're my friend, idiot."

"Oh, well this is my work, so..."

"Did that stop me last time?"

Silas shook his head in amusement before moving back behind the counter. It still had week-old Halloween decorations, with worn-out spiderwebs on the register and a by the tip jar. It's laminated with a granite pattern covering old wood. The paint is chipped and the base looks worn down. Yet it's still clean and I can only wonder if Silas was the only one cleaning the shop.

"So, how was your day?" I start, not really sure where to start.

"Quiet. We had a few customers but most of the day was just restocking and pretending to be watching the counter. Y'know, like usual. I honestly think I prefer days like this, 'exciting' days can get exhausting. But I'll never turn down a chance to spice it up," he replied, gesturing to me.

"Haha I get it, I eat more spices then you. It's not my fault you can't cook anything but a plain chicken," I joked back.

"Oh sure, make fun of the highschool dropout for not being able to cook."

"What does that have to do with anything? You just can't season your meat properly."

"Everything, Hari. It has everything to do with it," he says, trying to be mad and failing miserably, a smile tugging at the end of his lips.

"You really should learn how to cook, has your dad ever tried to teach you? It's a good skill to have."

Silas is silent for a minute, looking down at the counter almost pensively.

"No, I don't think he ever has. He's more of a 'do it yourself, just don't come whining to me if you get hurt' so I guess I never tried."

This troubles me, but I don't really say anything, instead opting to causally offer, "I could teach you if you want."

He looks back up, a sort of quiet wonder in his eyes, "Really?"

The disbelief in his voice hurts, has no one ever offered to help him learn something before? I say nothing, not wanting to put unneeded attention on his vulnerability.

"Yeah! I grew up learning from my Mom how to cook."

"Oh, yeah that makes sense," he replies softly, "So when could we do this?"

"Anytime! Really, anytime works. Probably in the afternoons, since I have lessons in the evening."

Silas goes to respond when the back door swings open again.

Shit.

"Silas, are you still slacking off?" comes a stern voice I'm learning to dread.

Staying quiet, Silas shakes his head. I turn to look and the Butcher looks as displeased as last time He's not wearing a suit, instead dressed in simple work clothes, knife still in hand. It looks like there's dried blood on it and I decide to not think about that anymore. His square face is set in a scowl, with his eyebrows furrowed in anger.

"I thought I told you that getting work done comes over everything, including being lazy with customers. What will they think of us if their server can only barely hold a conversation instead of serving them?" he asks with disdain, "I guess I should just load up the list of chores for the day since you're so busy chatting with loiterers. I'll be sure to make it extra messy."

The last part caught me off guard. He remembers me?

As if reading my mind, "Don't think I've forgotten about you. Y'know most customers just shop and leave instead of sticking their noses into my employees' business. Get something or get out, I don't want to see you again."

He grins at the look on my face, I must've let my discomfort show, "I have to get back to work, unlike some people. If he isn't gone by the time I come back you're on disposal duty for the rest of the month."

And with that, he leaves.

Silas is once again silent and as I turn back to him I can hear him mutter, "Shit, the blood's going to be impossible to wash off. And the smell..."

The mood is once again ruined. I try to start up conversation again but Silas just shakes his head and stays quiet. Sighing, I give his hand a squeeze and head to the door, clinging of the bell marking the end of another encounter.

Chapter 9

December comes without much fanfare.

Time flows slower as the cold comes faster. Days meander by at their own leisurely pace and the town settles into it's hibernative state. The trees become barren and the grass has turned brown. Evergreen farms are finally opening up their doors for business for families to go tree hunting under grey skies. The first snowfall comes and goes and soon it's the third and second until the crunch of yellow snow becomes commonplace.

I haven't seen Silas in a week.

It's probably no big deal. He has his own life and he still texts me, and yet I can't help but worry. How much trouble did he really get in? How much trouble did I get him in? Is he texting me good morning in the middle of a workday, even at 7 in the morning? Or is he just waking up and is perfectly fine?

Today's no different. Wake up, get dressed, grab my bag and go. Open my phone and see if I have any notifications and smile to myself when I see Silas.

[7:35 AM] good morning!

[7:36 AM] Good morning. Did you sleep well? You've been working later recently, but I hope that doesn't affect it too much.

[7:37 AM] i've been sleeping fine, but thanks for asking.

[7:37 AM] we've gotten more orders so its been a lot of packing

[7:38 AM] Oh, well good luck with that.

[7:39 AM] thanks! ill get through it cause i have a new book on hold. its on the french revolution. did you know marie antoinette never said 'let them eat cake?' its just a myth. i think that's honestly really interesting so im psyched to read about more of it.

[7:40 AM] I'd love to hear about it. :)

And that's the end of that. Silas doesn't respond, only giving the message a 'thumbs-up' reaction and I have to get on with my day. Sometimes he'll send pictures of himself, simple selfies throughout his shifts. Soft smiles with sunlight filtering through the window. Overdramatic pictures of him doing dishes - even with a still image I can tell he's complaining. A strange-looking bird he thinks I'll find funny. It's nice, casual.

Yet he's distant. Some days texts are are sparse, some days he doesn't text at all. Sometimes we'll still stay up all night, yet in the morning he texts in single words compared to the paragraphs I've grown used to. Rambles come rarely and I find myself waiting for him to respond, staring at my quiet phone throughout the day.

Schoolwork still takes up my time, so at least I'm not bored. Training for competitions, studying for tests, it's all par for the course. I hang with friends and go to cafes. I try to fill my days as much as I can so I don't fall back into my old routine.

But I'm still stuck there. I know I can't ignore what's whispering at the back of my head, that the murderer is still out there. That fucking around and having fun is counterproductive, that I'm letting him get away. If I just paid more attention, spent more time on it. I could catch him, I just need to keep working. I try to resist, move on. I tell myself there hasn't been a victim in months, that it's unlikely he'll go after someone again. I try to bury my notebooks under textbooks and in desks. I push the thoughts to the back of my head.

Yet my feet still follow the same paths, my eyes still watch and my mind still waits. I have to be honest with myself, I have to tell myself I won't escape this until I catch them, catch this killer. Even if I've just made them up. I still hope that that's it at the end of the day.

So, I unlock the thoughts, retrace my steps, reopen my notebooks. Follow my leads, go into neighborhoods again. Let myself fall into the monotony of patrolling day in and day out. It's exercise, I tell myself. It's good for myself and good for my cause. But nothing's happening. It's just the same people, same houses. There's nothing new.

Who am I going to catch if no one is standing out? The victims have nothing connecting them except for where they live. Someone has it out for this town, or maybe they don't. I would never know. It could be paranoia, or I could be the only one who knows the truth. Crazy or unheard. Not like I've told anyone.

I need to change my plans. I'm going in circles, carving my footsteps into the cement as I pace around town. But what could I do? Downtown's already been covered and I don't want to go back there right now, the butcher's glare still burned into my mind. Neighborhoods are the only other things I can go in town and I've already exhausted the library's resources.

The only thing left I can think of is the forest.

Fuck.

I'll be the first to say I've been avoiding it. Seeing a dead body doesn't exactly make me want to go back there. Even if it was years ago, it stays with you. I just can't shake the feeling that I'm going to see another one if I go in, no matter the time of year. But maybe now that it's snowing and white powder has started to cover the trees and ground....

Maybe it'll be enough to shield me from whatever I might see. Like a pane of fogged-up glass, only allowing brief glimpses into the world outside. A layer of mist that will protect me, even from the cold it brings.

So it's settled. With nothing else to do I head out to the forest. Bundled up in coats and scarves and gloves, I feel ready to face whatever out there, even if just to give myself a new place to look. Or even just rest my fervent thoughts.

Outside the sky has turned grey and dark with the late afternoon approaching. The world is so big and I feel so small. Looking around, I barely see anyone, every family cooped up in their own homes to stay warm. My own family is busy with work and I didn't just walk out without telling them. They're used to me going for walks, there's nothing remotely weird about it. Yet I can't shake the odd feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Snow crunches underfoot as my breath fogs up my glasses, the only sounds are my footsteps and the slow whistle of the wind. I didn't bring my music with me, opting to leave my headphones on my desk. I want to be able to hear anything and everything. Just in case. So now it's just me, my thoughts, and the wind. There are plans for what I'm looking for, even though I'm taking a break. There are the thoughts worrying about Silas, the ones worrying about schoolwork. The ones related to my family are quiet, knowing they're safe at home.

Yet the loudest thoughts are those telling me I'm walking into a trap. The woods seem innocent and still in the distance, yet my heart feels caught in my throat. I want to turn back, heart beating fast and strong. There should be no reason for me to be worried, yet I can't shake that this is wrong. There's something wrong with this almost idyllic winter scene.

Pavement turns to gravel as the trees begin to shade me from the harsh sun. The forest is partially pine with the rest being barren wood waiting for their chance to grow again. Beige, tan and burgundy fill my vision as I zone out, blending my mind with the howling wind around me. Padded boots meet padded snow and my path continues onward. Aimlessly wandering in an aimful direction.

Sometimes I might hear a scurrying, a tap of some small foot. A rabbit, maybe? Ivory fur darting between powder-covered trees. A bird singing to itself. A twig snaps off in the distance, and another one underfoot. The usual sounds of the forest are missing and for the most part, all I can hear is stark silence. The perfect recipe for a storm to brew in my mind.

Ears tinged pink, I pull down my hat. The head is most sensitive to the cold. You have to keep it warm, keep it insulated. Protect it, lest you want to get a brain injury. I'm already bundled up to the nines. The heart of winter is slowly nearing and it's never been kind to me. As much as I like the fall, it seems I get colder faster and longer, so I've learned to take precautions. No snow can one-up me now!

Thoroughly lost in my own world, I didn't even notice when my feet had traveled to the same spot I had been traumatized 2 years ago. It looks different. Less worn out and definitely less bloody. But it's all the same. Same ditch at the side of the road that doesn't happen on the rest of the trail. Same steep fall. Same fear, same adrenaline slowly creeping up my spine.

My head feels like it's being pounded in, every inch of it caving in under an invisible pressure. It's burning, searing my mind, my thoughts getting tunnel vision as all I can stare at is the gravel at the bottom of the trench. My eyes trace the outline of gravel over and over again as I'm flashed with her sunken in eyes, that cracked skull. Contorted limbs. Blood. The tear in her shirt. Blood. The smell of decaying flesh imprinted onto my nose. Blood.

Blood.

My eyes are stained red with it. I can feel it oozing from the crevices of my face as they rot, rot, rot away. Hands, gone. I'm down there with her, I am her. Gone, dead, this is what I will be if I don't get out, out, out. Get out and far away. Stay here and freeze. I don't know, and I know everything. My mind is rushing, racing, and frozen still.

I don't know how long I've been staring into the ground, hands bunched into my coat, slowly digging crescent marks into my skin. My brain is blank as my feet start to move, climbing down, down, down into the trench. I am six feet below the surface and I don't know what I'm doing but I'm digging. Maybe to keep myself sane, to reassure myself there's nothing there but snow on my bare hands.

My fingers go numb and I keep digging, scraping into the very earth beneath me until I hit dirt. Even then I don't stop. I'm not in the same spot, I can't be. But I also wouldn't know. I saw them take away the pile of skin and bones that was left, I know it's nowhere to be found. So why do I keep going? Maybe to feel alive. Maybe all I need to keep my heart beating is the frost on my cheeks and the dirt underneath my fingernails.

My life support, my IV, the shrink keeping me in check. Something to distract myself from the fact that I'm manically digging into snow in the middle of the evening. To distract from the fact that my family is probably worried, that I probably have other things to do. All that matters is knowing I'm safe, knowing I'm not next. This is what I need. That something to keep me going.

Something to stop my heart from flatlining when my skin touches the jagged edge of a bone.

Chapter 10

In the end, it was Silas who found me, facedown and curled up in the freezing ditch. I was barely conscious for the walk to the back of the deli, mind as numb as my body felt. The doorway to the back room was like a haven, warmth skirting around the edges of my face as Silas lead me to a chair. He spoke in quiet whispers to his dad, saying I was vulnerable and injured and that he better let me stay if he knew what was good for him.

The taller man was quiet for once and I could hear a shuffle before he left us alone. I soon found myself wrapped in spare blankets as Silas sat across from me researching hypothermia symptoms, something he told me when I was conscious enough to understand him. My head was aching and my heart had stopped to a dull pounding compared to the marathon it had been running earlier.

He waited until I had stopped slurring my responses to any questions to explain what had happened.

"Your mom called us around 5, pretty frantic, wondering where you were, wondering if you were with me. I didn't know who she was until she clarified that you were her son and had mentioned coming here to visit me, that I was a friend, that you talked fondly of me," there was a sad look on his face at that, something I couldn't decipher, "After she said that you had gone out to the woods for a walk and hadn't come back, I knew I had to go look. Make sure you were ok."

His voice was almost shaking as he continued, "I wished I didn't find you like that."

I wanted to say something, explain something, everything, but the words wouldn't come. He couldn't possibly understand, I hadn't ever given him any hints. There was no way to explain the paranoia that came with hunting, no way to explain what I had found. No way to say how important it was that I go back there. How important it was that I keep going, expose the mystery I was teetering at the edge of breaking open.

There were no words to explain how sick the dirt underneath my fingernails made me feel. How they were pressing into my skin where my hands had numbed into balls at my sides, clutching at the blankets. How that dirt unnerved me more than most B-grade crime thrillers.

I don't know what face I made to make him sigh, but right now I must've been as easy to read as an instruction manual. It was obvious in the way Silas was staring at me, his eyes baring my soul with a deep sadness. Yet no matter how plain his concern was, it did nothing to prepare me for what he said next.

"I'm scared for you, Hari."

He continued when all I could do was stare, "I don't know what happened out there in the woods. To me, you've never been anything but smiles and kindness. Someone with an intense urge to know, to seek out, find the truth. Someone who has their life planned out in front of them. I know we haven't gotten to have that point, but I'd like to go deeper. I'd like to know what troubles you, I want to be there for you. But not like this. This is terrifying and all I can tell you is I never want to see you hurt again."

It was all I could do to not break down in tears. Forming words was still hard but I wanted to tell him so much, I wanted to tell him sorry, thank you, I love you. I wanted to ask him to hold my hands, keep me warm, keep me safe. I wanted to hold him and never let go. But before that he deserved an explanation, at least to start off with. He really deserved so much more.

My lips felt chapped against each other as I spoke slowly, hands still clutching the edges of the blanket, ". I'll be the first to say I haven't been fully honest with you or anybody. There are things, plans, I've kept secret from my family even that tie into this whole... mess. Even so, I don't really know what happened back there. It's all blurry for me, a mess of emotions and thoughts and I don't know what to say to you that will make it better. But I guess I owe you an explanation. And an apology."

At this Silas moved closer to me, putting his warm hand atop my freezing one, face growing more concerned the longer time went on.

"An apology? You don't owe me anything, Hari. I just want you to be safe. Me not understanding a situation that obviously affects you isn't something worthy of an apology, it just means that I'm out of the loop. Yes, I was scared and so were your parents but that doesn't mean I would have any right to be mad at you. You were reckless but it sounds like you weren't in your right mind, caught up in something you couldn't control," he smiles weakly, "I've been there too. sometimes thoughts can be stronger than your common sense, right?"

I nod quietly, not sure of what to say.

He continues, "But I think an explanation would help both of us. You obviously have stuff to get off your chest and it would help to understand the situation better. You should also let your family know you're safe."

Oh shit, my family. I hadn't even thought of them since I went out to go walking, too caught up in everything, and my brain had just fully dethawed. Moving away from Silas I look around for a phone to call them, unsure of where my own cellphone is. For all I know it could be dead, the battery drained from the snow. It could still be in that ditch.

Not being able to find one, I look back to Silas who looks confused before it hits him and he pulls out his phone, handing it to me. Slowly punching my mom's number in, I think of what to say. What to explain, what to excuse, what to tell as it is. It's a strained conversation, tears in her voice as soon as she picks up. She scolds me for being reckless in one breath and says she's happy I'm safe in another. I cry as I tell her I'll be home by the evening.

I hang up a minute later, somehow even more tired than I was when I was defrosting. Silas had pulled out a chair next to him, presumably for me to sit down next to. Slumping down next to him in exhaustion, I sidled up to him, not caring about pretenses. All I cared about right now was how comfortable, how warm, how safe I felt up against his chest like this. Closing my eyes I simply sit there, letting myself rest.

I can feel him tense up, unsure of what to do with himself before he settles on putting a tentative arm around my waist, pulling me closer. It felt right, like our bodies were built to be slotted together like this, just enjoying each other's presence. Yet my mind was still whirling, kickstarted into action again by our earlier conversation.

"When do you think I'd be able to give you that explanation? I don't want to do it here, I can't explain it but I just.... can't," I mumble into his chest.

He's silent for a moment before whispering back, "What about that coffee date I promised you?"

And then it was settled.

Letting ourselves enjoy the moment a second longer, not sure of what else to say or do that wouldn't break this spell, we slowly detangled ourselves from one another. I couldn't look him in the eye as I grabbed my coat from where it had been drying on a rack across from the table. My face felt hotter than it had all afternoon, and I had a feeling that I knew exactly why.

Turning back to Silas after donning my winter gear like a suit of armor, I felt ready to face whatever would find me, us, out lack with there. He was wearing a simple jacket, black with grey padding on the inside and a simple hood. A scarf hid the bottom of his face and he had a hat on that pushed his bangs down. Yet I could still make out those piercing blue eyes staring right into mine, a mixture of fear, excitement, and something new. Something warm.

We head out, cold hitting me fully once I step out the door. I move closer to Silas again, my body instinctively looking for warmth as we walk towards the town square. The cold still felt so familiar, easily seeping back into my bones. I felt cold from the inside out and it was getting harder to ignore as the seconds ticked on. Maybe that's why it came as a sort of shock when I felt Silas's hand squeeze mine in reassurance.

Oh. Since when had that happened?

It's not like I was going to complain. The whole afternoon already felt like a fever dream, what's one more thing? If anything the steady weight of his hand in mine was generating warmth, both by my hand and on my face. A sort of half-formed dream come true even if it's not in the way I thought it would be. Nothing like holding hands with your crush after he found you half unconscious in the snow. But even after that he still took care of me, still cared about me, didn't think I was weak. Who could blame me for hoping it didn't go one way.

His hand a newly found lifeline, we made our way towards the area of Downtown where the were more restaurants than not. I didn't want to go to anywhere too fancy, we were supposed to be getting coffee after all. We end up at a smaller cafe where the only people there at this time of the day are people taking advantage of the free wifi.

"I'll order for us if you find a booth, ok?" Silas asks as we approach the counter and I nod in response.

Reluctantly letting go of his hand I head towards a table in the back. I pick the seat facing towards the cafe and watch as Silas orders. As I watch him I realize I've never really seen him interact with others. He's still the same man I talk to over the phone and in his shop. Yet he seems to be almost shy, ordering our drinks and then retreating to wait. Social anxiety? Or simply exhaustion? I can't really fault him for either, sometimes it seems like he cares too much about what others think of him.

I've seen it happen before, at the library, with his dad, even sometimes when he's ranting about customers. It wraps his brain until the pressure is all he can think of. I wish I didn't know what that felt like, exceptt for me it's the tight squeeze of obsession, the drive to know and control whatever danger is out there. The need for the truth, however I might get it. It still ebbs at my brain when I'm taking breaks, when I'm not doing anything remotely related to my investigation.

I have to wonder if this happens to actual detectives. Is this what drove them to their job, what keeps them up through those sleepless nights, the grim reality of crime and justice. Will it be enough to keep them, to keep me, going? Or will we all eventually burnout in a fruitless quest?

I'm snapped out of my thoughts by a cup being placed in front of me. It's a simple white mug with the cafe's logo painted onto it. In it is a see-through brown drink that smells of lavender and faintly of chamomile. It felt warm in my hands and another nice break from the cold that hasn't gone away. I look up and see Silas sitting down with a slightly larger maroon cup.

"Is this tea?" I ask as he settles himself.

Looking sheepish he answers, "Yeah, I didn't think caffeine would be good for you so late, but I still wanted you to be warm. So.... tea. I hope I chose a good flavor, I've never drunken the stuff."

"It's fine, though I prefer vanilla tea," I smile back at him, "Thank you."

"Oh, you drink tea?"

"Yes, is that a weird thing?"

"Well, no. I just thought you'd be a coffee drinker, like heavy black coffee. It goes with you're whole grungy detective look. Tired and dependent on caffeine," he explains, " Or now that I think about it tea fits too. I don't think you're as hardcore as those cop dramas I'm thinking of"

"... Grungy detective look?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Well! You like mysteries and you're always carrying a notebook and you wear that trenchcoat religiously. So. Grungy detective!"

I laugh into my drink, "I guess it fits. I do want to be a detective, even if I don't think I'm quite 'grungy'."

"I'm not the writing nerd, cut me some slack," Silas mumbles as he takes a sip.

"I don't think I will," I tease, surprised at how naturally it comes, "If I'm the grungy detective, are you the mysterious witness who charms me?"

"I'd like to be," comes the immediate response.

This throws me for a loop. So far, Silas has been nothing but charming. Forward with his friendship and affection and receptive of mine. Yet I had still not expected him to even hint at receprocating. This coffee date seemed like a formality, a way to be polite. Now it was a startling reality.

Silas must've noticed I had gone silent as he started to look nervous himself.

"Anyways, an explanation. That's what we're here for." he says, attempting to change the topic.

"Yea..." I trail off, not really know what to say, "Are you really sure you want to know why I collapsed earlier?"

I can only hope he can't notice my hesitation, can't notice how tight my els.throa How much of a traitor I feel to myself. Silas nods and I prepare myself, taking a breath.

"A year and a half ago I saw a corpse," I start ignoring his surprise, trying to figure out how to continue, "It was a jogger, no clue if she was local or not. Fell right over that steep ditch where you found me, probably overnight. I found her starting to decay, long past saving. I swear I'll never get it out of my head. Why it's relevant will come later, firs I have a question for you. You've heard of the missing people around Steinham, right?"

"Who hasn't?"

"Exactly, it's been a hot topic for months. Now if you take those cases and my whole detective shtick, what do you get?" I look at him expectantly.

"Someone who is trying to make me explain for him?"

I can only sigh at that, is it that obvious? It's not wrong to not want to explain something that's been affecting me for months now. It's become deeply personal and I can't figure out why I feel so on edge talking about it.

"Well excuse me for not wanting to bare my fucking soul!" I snap before retreating into myself, "Sorry. I don't know what came over me, it's just hard to talk about."

Silas gave me a pitying but no-nonsense look. I wasn't getting out of this. Starting again, slower this time, I said, "You know how when someone gets missing people tend to assume the worst? They've been kidnapped, trafficked, they're dead in a ditch. That sort of thing. Well, you could say I'm one if those people. The way I see it there's too many weird coincidences and too many victims for it to be just a series of simple kidnappings."

"So what are they?" Silas asks out of morbid curiosity.

"Murder cases. At least that's what I think."

When Silas doesn't say anything I continue, "Think about it. Most series of missing person cases are related in some way, but when the victims go from high schoolers to cashiers to old people it starts to look less like a pattern and more like a bunch of random victims with no connections. Almost like someone just killing people for the hell of it. Or killing anyone they can get their hands on. Who would kidnap random people and put in that much effort?"

Silas raises an eye at me, "You do know that still sounds far-fetched. I can see where you're coming from but I don't know if I'm convinced."

"I know, why do you think I haven't told anyone. I've been investigating and hoping that I'm wrong. I need to prove it to myself before I prove it to anyone else."

"Is that what all you're notes are about?"

"Some of them are actually schoolwork but yeah. Once or twice a week I sit down and write out my shorthand notes into longer notes, usually at the library. It helps me process them better," I explain, "Listen everyone is already coping badly enough as it is, I need to be 100% sure first."

Silas is quiet for a second before he asks, "So what does this have to do with the woods?"

My throat starts to close again, heart leaping up into my head and all I can feel is it pounding into a nasty headache. I feel like I'm stripping myself bare and letting Silas see something I'm not allowed to show. Who knew being vulnerable was this hard.

"Well, it's become a sort of obsession. Any free time I have is spent patrolling and note taking and sometimes it gets too much for me. I don't hate it, it invigorates me and gives me a purpose. A way to channel the anxiety of thmee whole deal, but even I know when to take a break."

"And the woods was the break...?"

"Yes and no. I had originally I had only gone on a walk to clear my head and somehow ended up back where I saw that runner all those years ago and I don't know... My mind just turned off and the panic took over. I don't remember much before I passed out."

Silas was silent but my mind was very loud. The panic button had been pressed and the sirens were on full blast. Every second that he looked at me with that unreadable expression was another second my headache grew. Finally he spoke.

"I want in."

Chapter 11 (WIP!)

In the end, we set up a schedule. Since I still had school and practice and Silas had to work, we could only meet once every two days or so. I would go straight from school down to the library and set up shop in the corner desk we had claimed even before the first meeting. I would do homework until he got off work and we'd go from there. It was awkward, it was stilted and it felt out of place in this budding friendship we had started to build together.

That was how it went for the first week.

I didn't know how to move forward from the state I had found myself in at the coffee shop. Vulnerable, traitorous, laid bare for the world to see. For Silas to see. And see he did, with oceans of concern held in his gaze. Not disgust, never disgust. Just a wish to keep me safe and sane. So when the first few meeting came, conversations of context and strategies and chalk clouds of insecurities and obsession sprinkling the air, he didn't leave. He stayed and I think that made all the difference.

After the third talk of theories and patrols, the Friday after I passed out, Silas stopped me as I went to leave. Neither of us had anywhere to go but I wanted to leave, to escape the pressure in my neck. It must've shown on my face, a pain that had built up over an hour because he spoke gently.

"Do you want to go grab something to eat?" he started slowly, "I've never really been to the restaurants downtown and I've built up a fucking appetite."

I simply nodded. It was all I could do to not cry at what he wasn't saying out loud, Would you let me help you relax? It seemed so simple, but an offer of help was what I needed these days. To no longer feel like I was drowning. So downtown we went. There was a small sandwich place I went to sometimes, so taking Silas there didn't seem as intimidating as the fancier restaurants.

I got my usual - a simple BLT and chips - and he got a Reuben. Sitting down there felt just as awkward as the library. It was all new territory and I never knew how to feel about 'new'. Silas had gone to grab our food and as he returned he spared me by starting the small talk for me.

"So, have you read anything new recently?"

And that was all I needed to fully relax, launching into an explanation of the books I had picked up that week. It was a mixture of mystery and romance, some focused on murders while others were more interesting. He seemed particularly interested in the more historical ones, mysteries that were from other times. Mentally I made a note to get him a list of recommendations.

We talked for another two hours, my heart feeling lighter the more we just sat and talked. Relaxing into a conversation about whatever had been just what I needed, to the point that I could have almost forgotten what happened during our meetup earlier. Over the week Silas and I had established a sort of routine. I had a backlog of notes I needed to go over with him, so I would pick a section for the day and he would take notes as I talked.

There were sectors, motives, connections to go over. Everything was both extremely mundane and incredibly important. Today I had decided to go over the victims again with him.

"So here's what we know," I had started, "None of the victims are tourists and most are native to Steinham except for the businessman who had just moved here. Most of them were fairly social, working, going to boo clubs, things like that. Three were related to the school, a teacher, and two students, and the rest in some way were found frequently downtown. The businessman frequented the coffee shop, the cashier worked downtown and the older man lived out by the woods."

What I had realized while reading through my notes is I had been so focused on location. It was easy to get caught up in the adrenaline around town, to carve my footprints into the sidewalks as I patrolled like some disgraced vigilante. In my frenzy, I had forgotten who really mattered. The victims. Even if there were no new ones, no fresh anxiety, I needed to focus on who had already suffered. As much as this was a crash course for Silas, it was a reminder for me too.

Honestly, I don't think Silas had actively followed any of the missings persons' reports, losing the facts like most of the town. Every time I listed off another fact it was new to him, only the vague descriptions registering as familiar to him. Either he really was out of the loop or I was in too deep. It didn't matter at this point, because he still cared. He still cared and I had been riding that euphoria, ignoring the building pressure in the back of my head, the clench of my throat, the beating of my heart.

"What do all the victims have in common?" I ask after Silas had stopped taking notes.

He thinks for a second before answering, "They're all connected to downtown or the woods?"

I already knew this, I wanted to find something new. I needed a fresh take, this is part of the reason I agreed to enlist him. It had nothing to do with the way my heart felt when he had seen my soul and wanted to be a part of it. Absolutely not.

"What else?" I push, wanting him to think deeper.

He's silent, hesitation passing on his face.

"Could it have something to do with what you found in the woods?" he asked nervously as if he didn't know how I would react.

My heart felt like it stopped working. How did he know about that? I hadn't even told him anything about the bones, had I? That whole day was still a blur, but I don't think I would ever forget the ragged cold bone under my freezing fingers.

Once again, my panic must've shown on my face as he elaborated on his thought, "Well you must've found something. When you passed out you were curled up in this shallow hole and it was obvious you were digging for something. Could that be it?"

Oh, so he didn't know. Relief didn't begin to describe it. I could control who I told, including him. I almost smiled at that thought. As I calmed down, however, I did start to seriously consider his suggestion. Why did all the victims frequent the area near the woods? Of course, it could just be that it's the busiest part of town, but still. It's weird.

But did it have anything to do with the bones?

Snapping back to the present I realized I must've zoned out as Silas was looking at me with a worried look, "What's up?"

"Just thinking about earlier," I answered quietly, my energy long since spent.

"The library?" he asks again and I simply nod, "I get that it's hard. I'm new to this and it's personal to you. But if I can be honest, it's fucking adorable to see you nerd out about cause and motive. Like, have you seen yourself? You get so into it brain moving like twenty times mine yet you still make sure I understand. Cutest shit, I swear."

I'm too focused on pushing him away playfully to notice the red dust on my cheek and the smile on my face. Silas makes me feel like a fire, warm and safe and billowing brightly in the dark. He feeds me and keeps me burning when all I want to do is blow away as sparks in the night.

Next time we keep on with the victims, the bones playing in the back of my mind. Constantly battling my thoughts like a ghoulish marimba. Rattling around as I try to focus. It takes another week and three more coffee not-dates before either of us brings up the topic again. I had exhausted explaining the victims and so we doubled down on the lead of their connection of the woods. We had ruled out downtown, it wasn't a viable connection, but the forest near downtown was.

Packing up my notes it hit me. What if I brought Silas to the spot. He hadn't judged me in the past, maybe he could actually help me make sense of it?

Looking over to where he was shrugging on his coat I asked, almost blurting it out, "Do you want to come to the woods with me?"

He looked over at me, a little surprised but before he could respond I continued on rambling, "We'd need to go get some shovels first - I promise I haven't killed anyone - but there's something I want to find, and well-"

"Of course, I would," he answered softly, cutting me off, "You better explain why, but we have shovels in the back of the shop we can use. Sometimes dad has to bury rotten meat, I don't know the specifics. The smell freaks me out so I ignore that job as much as I can."

Weird. I had never known a butcher to have to bury rotting meat so frequently but what did I know. I was too busy riding the high to really care.

bonus scene from later in the book

He's tense. I can see it in the way he won't meet my eyes. The tightness of his jaw, the frizz of his hair, the week-old clothes. He's a wreck and he doesn't want me to see it. Silas has always been so independent, the lone wolf to my pack mentality. Living life on his own little rowboat, strung along by waves larger than he wants to acknowledge. The way he sees it, if he can keep to himself no one gets hurt. Not him and not others.

And he's happy, at least he thinks. To me, it looks more like acceptance. Tolerating a life that doesn't hurt you but doesn't let you grow. He's stuck, like a dandelion sprouting up from the sidewalk crack. No future outside of existing in this tiny home it's made.

And I'm not saying I've fixed him. I don't think anyone can 'fix' anyone. No one person is going to be a magical cure to all your problems, more often than not they just cause more trying to solve them. But I can sure as hell just be there with him. And right now that means getting him to meet me halfway. Me over on my bed, him closing in on himself at my desk, it feels like there could be a world between us.

He looks so small, hunched over in the chair. This 6-foot wall, scrunched down in exhaustion. The heaviness of his shoulders has probably been there for days by the way it's settled into him. It's become a part of him, defining him by the slump of his back, the bags under his eyes, the frown on his mouth. By the heavy stare burning into the ground. I just want to hold him, let him rest with me, be able to depend on me, but the air in the room is tense.

But has that ever stopped me before?

"Have you been sleeping?" I ask, getting up from the bed.

Silas turns to me, meeting my eyes for the first time, his eyes so bleak it breaks my heart a little more.

He sighs, "Not since you called. Too much on my mind."

I'm standing in front of them, squatting down to meet his gaze. Gently I put my hand on his arm, comforting him. He just stares at it sadly. His shoulders slump, tension slowly draining bit by bit. Hands on his back, I try to gesture for him to stand up, to follow me. Gently pushing him up and pulling him towards me. He comes slowly, unfolding clunkily like cardboard that's been folded too long.

Silas, now fully standing, looks around. He's seen my room before, but now it's like it's his first time. I just have to wonder if the fog is starting to lift from his brain. If he's slowly working out of his rut. He looks like a man on death row, about to walk to the gallows. Every second he examines my room looks like his last as if he were trying to suck it all in. One last look before he goes.

Turning back to me he smiles sadly, his face seeming gentler somehow. Too tired for words, he awkwardly moves to hold me, hands finding a place around my back. I pull him closer, one hand on his shoulder and one moving up to cup his cheek. He leans into it, like a cat searching for warmth.

We're face to face at this point, his forehead touching mine. We start gently swaying, a small smile on his face. It took me a moment to figure out what was happening - the dork was humming. Giving us music to dance to. I didn't even know we were dancing. This awkward shuffle of tired limbs and worn souls, a moment where we are the only two people in the world. Me and my boy.

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