His eyes are bloodshot and his knees are shaking— the metal legs of the chair banging against his own, in the interrogation room. He is totally clueless.

I gulp at the thought of Harry eventually finding about this, or maybe tonight itself, in case our witness is released without any chagrin. But I don't have a choice. I had to rat out Brandon to keep Sarah off the hook for a while.

"Ms. Williams, you can now come inside," the cop calls Sarah, and yet I am the one to flinch. It's difficult to being on the other side of the glass, when I know that I should be the one panicking in the little room instead.

Although, if I knew I was going to be confronted, I would have done a lot better than he is doing. If you are going to be scared, then at least take it to the extremes. The person in front of you needs to sympathise with you, not pick on the guilt brimming in your eyes.

"Can Emma accompany me? She is a good friend of Kylie's, I am sure that she can be of great help to us." Sarah gives me a short smile and pleadingly looks at the Officer.

She has been living at our house since the day I walked in on her and my father. Apparently, they had a few coincidental meetings in Washington during my father's business conference and her book launch. That was around mid June, so it really hasn't been a long time; yet it makes me want to puke every time I try to grasp it like a mature adult.

Nonetheless, it has also made me insomniac and washed my pocket money away in my quest to stock on cheap liquor. The little time I did spend with my father earlier, is now close to nil because there's not a second when Sarah isn't by his side. They cook dinner together, take long walks by the park, and try to therapize me if I mistakenly cross their path at any given point.

It's almost ironic how, Sarah Williams, a world renowned child psychologist, never bothered to delve into the troubled mind of her own daughter. Mr. Meyers tried to compensate for her, but he could only do so much with the court restraints implied upon him after their divorce. His second marriage didn't help very much either. Apparently, Kylie downed too much champagne and made out with the bride's Spanish cousin at the wedding.

I knew Kylie was someone who had always been on her own, but I guess it wasn't a voluntary choice.

"Ms. Callaway," the cop, now turning impatient, pulls me out of my thoughts. I find that Sarah is already seated across Brandon, and is holding a rather fierce look to her eyes. Her long, manicured nails are digging into the exquisite leather of her Chanel handbag, which is about to be ripped into shreds any time soon.

"Uh oh," I mutter under my breath, squirming in the limited space to reach across Sarah, and all the while avoiding Brandon's scrutinising gaze. The heat of the tension between the three of us, easily beats the iciness in our throats.

And before I know, the missiles are fired. "You were at a party with my daughter before she went missing, and you have something to do with it." Sarah shoots daggers at him.

"Sorry to crush your gliding spirits, but I have nothing to do with it," he flips his golden locks back while cursing to himself.

"How do you know my daughter?" Her voice is softer now— probably because she realises that the harsh tone isn't going to do any work. Or maybe she is just scared.

I unwillingly place a hand on her shoulder to keep her from breaking down and possibly getting it all out of me. She just nods while her eyes remain fixated on Brandon. Her gaze doesn't seem to pull any reaction out of him, which actually shouldn't be surprising at all.

However, there's something unnatural about it. Like he is putting effort to appear clueless. "We had a casual sex relationship, that's all," he shrugs, completely disregarding the fact that he is answering to Kylie's mother. This bluntness can cost him a lot.

"Shut your..." Sarah purses her lips and lets out a shaky breath, containing herself. "For how long?"

"Three months, I guess," he scratches his head, while Sarah taps her foot against the dented metal chair. "We first met at her work place in eighth avenue."

I let out an involuntary gasp at the mention of eighth avenue. It immediately takes me back to a vivid memory, and yet another horrific reminder.

***

October had begun, and so had the occasional chilly breeze that accompanies the spooky season. Naturally, all I wanted to do on a lazy evening, was to plug a nineties rom-com and make myself a hot cup of cream espresso, just like the one Archie does. It was all done; the CD case laid out, the coffee maker duly washed and ready to use, and everything oh so perfect until Kylie spammed my socials, asking me to give her company while she works an extra shift at her new job. I almost refused, but then realised I owed her one, after speed dialling her nearly ever time my boyfriend acted like an asshole.

So, here I was, at eighth avenue, trying to locate the address Kylie had messaged me. I could see nothing but creepy mannequins displayed behind the glass panes of boutique shops lined on either sides of the street. After asking a few people and aimlessly walking around for twenty minutes, I stood in front of a half closed by blinders, half open, underground chocolate shop.

I warily entered inside, but all the doubt wore off as soon as I entered the small space— brightened up with a chandelier hanging by the ceiling, and wonderfully fragranced with notes of mint and cocoa. I could only gape at the variety of chocolates on the shelves, feeling like a six year old all of a sudden.

There were plain milk ones, sitting up front on the counter, greeting the customers who walked in. Behind those was the flavoured lot, nothing less than a delightful treat to your senses— a faint smell of orange and rum teasing my sober self as I strolled further. Moving along, I spotted a series of patterns painted on a display of white chocolates; the whole section reserved for intricate designs and pops of warm colours.

"Wanna try one?" Her voice was as alarming as ever, earning a squeak out of me.

"You've got to stop doing that," I turned around to be greeted by her signature crooked grin.

"Only when it stops being funny," she stuck her tongue out, her hands busy placing two heavy trays of freshly made chocolates in the cold display counter. She looked like a frat girl turned baker, with all the damp brown stains on her apron, as well as around her unicorn tattooed shoulder blade.

"Seems like you are enjoying this job," I went ahead and grabbed a funny looking piece, set aside on a parchment paper. It took less than a second to melt in my mouth, giving more pleasure than alcohol ever could. Although, it lacked the pain that became necessary to feel at times.

"It's the easiest job you can find. All you need to do is, melt a large brick of chocolate and then freeze it again in any shape you wish to. And you get paid like shit for doing something so lame."

"Good for you, then," I hardly paid any attention to her as I got busy identifying the burst of flavours on my tongue. I could feel the crunch of almonds and maybe just a hint of cranberry.

"I am marrying the owner of this shop."

"What?" The tray fell off my hands, landing with a thud.

"Just kidding, girl. I was saying that I need to get another batch ready, so it would be great if you can wrap this up " she announced before strutting inside the kitchen, while I stood there in the middle of an interrupted foodgasm.

I grumpily followed her inside and sat down on a bar stool, sulking in the corner. Meanwhile, she brought out a handful of stuff from the refrigerator and began mixing it all in a large bowl. "Can you hand me those earphones?" she pointed to the wiry mess on my side.

"Sure," I threw them over to her. As she connected the cord to her cellphone, and I looked at mine, it gave me a neat idea to keep myself occupied over the next hour. "So, here's my friend, Kylie Meyers, the newest and the most badass budding chocolatier in Manhattan." I flipped the camera over to Kylie, capturing the moment as she rolled her eyes.

"You going to record that?" She shook her head while pumping various food colour tubes in bowls filled with ganache.

"It's streaming live. Hundreds of people are watching this at the moment," I explained, but she could care less about it.

"Can you at least tell the viewers, why you are creating a rainbow on the counter?"

"To create my own M&M's. Those candies made my childhood more colourful than my parents could ever make. I often had urges to replace them with drugs as I grew up, but they are damn addictive to leave behind," she chuckled.

I instinctively lowered the camera down, and let the awkwardness take over, instead of winging it. "I am sorry, I became a little too excited."

She didn't say anything back, but dropped the spatula on the chopping board, letting it roll across the counter. I had almost begun to blame myself, when something unexpected happened. Fidgeting with the knot of her apron with one hand, she pulled out two cans of beer from the fridge with the other.
"This is not a replacement, just a compromise," she threw a can at me, and I barely caught it, stumbling as I did so.

An hour later, we were sprawling on the floor, surrounded by rolling aluminium cans. The world had begun to turn drowsy along with us, and I, begun to loathe the sweet fragrance of cacao in the kitchen. "You know, we don't talk anymore. Not like we used to, anyway. So, go on... tell me, what's up with Kylie? Anything new her best friend should know about?" I slurred, turning on my side to face Kylie.

"New, you say. Well, I did meet a blondie yesterday at the shop, who seemed kind of cute. One of those textbook bad boys dressed in sneaks and ripped jeans, a lip ring, and a devilish look in his eyes."

"Really? What's his name?" I couldn't recognise my own voice anymore.

She didn't reply but kept staring at the ceiling. "I think I might be bisexual," she narrowed her eyes, as if thinking it through.

"Why? Have you even had any girlfriends?" I sniggered, even though she was right beside me.

"No, but I did fall in love with a girl once. We just wrote letters to each other for a month or so. Every time I opened hers, a scent of fresh garden lilies came along, which I figured was just the way her soul smelled." She briefly smiled, but it soon turned into a frown. "I saw her at the Uni everyday, but couldn't ever gather the courage to talk to her. Heck, I didn't even write my whole name in those letters, just the initials. She must have thought, I was another one of those Hamlet' reciting guys, crushing on her from a distance."

"Have I met her?" I tried to think of all the girls I have encountered in the college, but my mind didn't cooperate so well. All I could see was a blurred flash of lights.

"I don't think so. She was in the girl's football team, and one of the best players I'd seen. I secretly watched her by the stands while the team trained, and I didn't miss a single game until... she just disappeared. She stopped coming to college, and never sent another letter after that. I still wonder what must have happened." Tears trickled down her face, the woeful sounds of her sniffles filling the space.

I wanted to comfort her, but I couldn't. The words, 'football' and 'disappeared,' all reminded me of the hit- list incident. She never came back, too. Just like Kylie said.

"I don't know anything about her," Brandon yells, and I return back to the interrogation. "I went back to the hotel after she left, and wrote the lyrics for a new song with my band mates.

The detective is questioning him as well. "Fine, do you have a witness to confirm your alibi?"

"My friend Harry is one of them." Brandon states and looks in my direction, but not exactly at me, forcing my head to crane back. I let out a sigh of relief when no one is to be seen in a distance.

"Emma must know, considering she has met Harry on quite some occasions. In fact, as far as I remember him telling me, he once helped her get to a hospital when she injured her arm. Coincidentally, on the very same day that I last met Kylie. Now, how did that happen, Emma?" He smirks at me, appearing more diabolical than I took him for.

Why is he doing this? Left without any answer and choice, I play along. "I believe, Brandon is saying the truth, so there's no point in egging him unnecessarily."

"You can leave if you want to, but I won't let this boy go until I am entirely convinced." Sarah crosses her arms to her chest.

"I understand your sentiment, ma'am, but we don't have any reliable evidence yet. I suggest we wrap this up, and that you go home now," the cop explains, while Sarah picks on the loose threads of her handkerchief as her eyes well up again. "Although, you might have to come back later, Ms. Callaway. In case, your assistance is needed for," he says, barely holding back on the suspicion in his tone. I'm not familiar with cop talk, but the wording and the intricacies all seem to translate to 'you're screwed.'