The chocolate glaze barely makes it to the sponge cake, most of the nut garnished icing ending up on the tips of my fingers. I am sure, Jake won't be as cranky about blowing candles over a year old, straight out of Betty Crocker's cardboard box, half baked, half winged cocoa cake. I mean, what's better than a factory assembled chocolaty treat to represent how shitty adulthood really is. Especially, when you are out of your teens and forcibly pushed in the rat marathon— lets be honest, a race has got to stop somewhere— going on and on since decades. We at Arlington, anyway believe that the corporate world is awaiting our arrival with soaring arms. On that capitalistic note, happy twentieth, Jake!

While we are going to celebrate his birthday in all righteousness, he is particularly insistent on doing a little something at the recreation centre. I almost backed out of filling up on a plate of bite sized coleslaw sandwiches and those wholesale transparent packets of salted– nay, grossly salted fried chips. Back when I was a child, I was of the belief that salt was extracted from those low priced treats. But he wore me down with his pleads and that damned puppy dog, specs covered face of his— which I still regret ever looking at, for the record. The good kind of regret though. The one where you know you are screwed, but also how you would pick that any day over risking a B&E under an unadvised dose of ecstasy.

Scraping a final layer of leftover chocolate over the cake, I let it settle in the refrigerator until it is time to take it to the hub of joy. I bet those guys have begun to appreciate the humour beneath my usually sardonic tongue. After all, they are the only ones left to practice it on— my regular targets now out of my reach for good. I admit there was a time, I couldn't think of going by two days without dunking my weed based cookies in mugs full of liquor, and one of the members of the gang being there to cheer along and partake in my crazy business. I remember how Emma and I almost burned my house down while playing catch with that rusty lighter of hers, and on a vodka soaked carpet at that. Kylie was supposed to come as well, but she was busy hunting for a booty call at the beach on the outskirts. From what I heard later that morning, some stuff went down and, apparently, cuffs were involved.

Lucky for us, the PD hasn't been able to prove our involvement in the suspicious circumstances under which she was murdered, and it looks like they are trying to file it alongside the rest of their cold cases. Kylie's parents are the ones keeping the department's foot down, still attempting to get a fresh lead on the otherwise open and shut case. I understand how they can't let go of the hunt for the perpetrator, but it's only to our benefit if he stays put with the ball laying around in his court. I can't speak for the rest, but I am not ready to scram for anymore clues about mysterious initials, unprompted fires, or well written suicide notes. I would rather go through my mail instead.

I brought it in while I stepped out to water my marijuana growing pots, and couldn't help the amusement as I saw the neatly wrapped package. There were days when I couldn't walk straight to the mailbox without running into the door head first— believe me, that wasn't always the case— and here I am today, opening a package that I didn't order off 'DrugsRUs.' I can vouch for the closure of that website, but can't really speak about their possible amalgamation with 'FarmToDoor.' How else am I supposed to explain all this hay addressed to my name, and what looks like an invite to a New Year's Eve get together at a ranch.

My expectations come crashing down though, as I pull out a glitter lathered invite from the envelope and read out a name I have been bombarded with, since our gang came under the radar of the enthusiasts at the suicide prevention club. "Rachel Stinson invites you... drag your asses by seven in the evening... a set of instructions to follow; the boy playing Pinocchio awaits your ride, take him to a short trip by the Clide's."

At the first look, it seems nothing more than a coded riddle you would get at the entrance of Disneyland, but the mention of Clide's and the slightly dampened box of hay reminds me of the night we are desperately trying to rub off of our memories. The night we first encountered Avon, and unknowingly the last. I was the only one who hadn't abused the on the house drinks offer at the club we went to, and particularly remembered passing by the recently opened chain of Clide's lobsters— a few miles away from the barn we drove those kids to. And if this morse code is indeed in connection to the nasty events of that night, it means this unasked for invite is sent by the one masking behind Avon Louis' identity.

He's passed on the ball in our court. But who knows if winning the game is the end of this chase, or the countdown to our downfall?

***

"I guess we will just have to go to the laser tag arena like people in their early twenties do," I murmur whilst strapping on the seat belt to my torso and mapping in the address of the lounge in my head. The swirling wind and the signs of an overdue blizzard aren't going to make this any easy.

"I want to say you skipped the DAA meeting on purpose, but since I can hear Channing Tatum howling in the background, I'll give you the benefit of doubt this time," Jake chuckles.

"Alright, I'll meet you in an hour. Stay prepared to be laser tagged, amigo," I wing my excellence at the game, hoping he would buy it anyway.

A wave of silence follows my poorly calculated claims. "Jake, I expect you to know that you aren't actually getting killed tonight," I keep the urge to laugh it off until he joins in the gag.

"Yeah... I mean, of course I know that. It's just, I have never heard you say 'amigo.' Never mind, I'll see you at the arena," he hangs up before I can read between the lines. I wish, someone warned me of how sober relationships can prove to be so high maintenance.

Lucky for me, the radio of my car switches over to One Direction's new single and my mind gladly puts the eerie conversation down the 'geeks can have mood swings too' category. It is a spot I have mulled over and made space for, in my Hacks to adjust to Presley directory. The rest of the ride as predicted, is spent trying and failing to lip sync to the lyrics of the rap songs coming one after the other. By the time I park outside the two floored building in Manhattan, my ignorant ass begins to vibe on a Swedish hip hop track.

I retain a small part of the chorus as I step out the elevator and enter the rehearsals of The New York fashion week, but only with ill fitted clothes, unsealed packs of cigarettes, and a scurry of unimportant people hovering all over the place. I bump into a couple of them as I make my way over to the lucratively dressed bar counter, and almost get tempted to hand my jacket over to the girl, whose dress is threatening to turn strapless and doesn't look like a scandalous move by a jealous contestant— pardon my humour, but I can't help when the foreign exchange student looks like a trophy with his golden tan and slender bod. I almost do it until she turns around, and I recognise her as the titular character of this little charade I am playing— Rachel Stinson herself. The figurative tiara on her head seems to be on the verge of plummeting down, and so does the marble base of her contour as a crimson rash overpowers the neutral beige theme she went for. The nail marks are spread out so precisely, it looks like she took the time and did it to herself.

A sinking feeling bears weight over my body— this being the first time I have witnessed an expression of self harm, and have zero clue about what must have led to the action. Is this how nauseating I make people feel every time I attempt to torture myself with cigarette burns, or gas light my house after popping in a pill of Meth? Before I can recollect further such instances, I put down the float Cuba libre and begin looking for the boy playing Pinocchio. I doubt this phrase actually makes any sense.

Since standing by the corner isn't going to do me any favours, I try to blend in with the crowd huddled in the open seating— which can also be described as the domino block crowd, in layman's words. As much as I try to stay aloof from all the tripping and breaking spines, I do end up becoming a victim of getting stepped on by a drunkard. "Fuck!" I wince in pain as my open toes wallow themselves under the strap of my wedges.

"Oops, I didn't mean to walk all over you. I must have mistaken you for the pretty ones," the blonde snorts a laugh while I make some tedious effort to keep my fists to myself. "Wait, is this yours?" He picks up a laminated card from the floor, squinting his eyes to look at the ID.

"Yes it is," I pull it out of his hand and shove it back in my jacket.

"You have a weird name, Monica Aldrin. Sounds like the name a cough syrup would have," he giggles some more, barely paying heed to the glare of my eyes. "I am Jackson Trevor, by the way."

"I don't care, shitface," I hiss at his ugly smirk and walk away from the crowd until my rage tries to calm itself. I speed walk all the way through the beer pong circles and the kiss and tell cover page duos, taking an abrupt halt at a half open door of the... cold storage, I guess.

There's nothing attention pulling about this air conditioned block of space and the chipped off wood of the door, unless you linger a little too long and pick on the smell lacing the area. It almost resembles the one I encounter in my own house, when those filthy rats trap themselves in a drawer or a shelve and later deliver the message with the unbearable stink of their rotting corpses. And to think I might have drank the same liquor, stored in a corner of this mice infested space.

Hoping to prove my speculations wrong, I fling the door open and regret it the very moment. I feel the blood rush to my head as I take in the scene laid out in front of me. The shock barely even takes over as the door shuts itself with a sudden force, making my heart almost jolt out the rib cage. There are too many elements that speak for the frown etching over my face— the fixation of his eyes on the beer bottles stacked together, the blotch of white on his powder blue T-shirt, the gape of his mouth and the stains of blood and drool cornering his lips, the slight pull of his jeans on the right ankle, the displaced rod extending above his ankle. It's all just too much, and... wait, why is there a rod extending above his ankle?

I hesitantly bend down and pull the hem of his jeans a little further, to come across the artificial limb stretching beneath the denim material. "Oh, my god!" I mutter under my breath, realising how foolishly I dismissed the slight limp in his walk and lauded myself for the extensive research, when I couldn't figure Brandon had a prosthetic leg all along. Who knows what lead to this? Or even what led to the death no one speculated in their right minds?

While these questions jumble across my mind, the dazed riddle in the invite becomes clearer as I conjoin the facts of the revelation I just made. Brandon has a wooden leg. Brandon is the boy playing Pinocchio, who I am supposed to take to a trip by Clide's. The reason behind this set of instructions is another puzzle to me, but I can't sit back and think it out the whole night. I can't let another person be sacrificed, not when the rest of the group is under the watch as well.

"Alright," I let out a gasp long due, and lift Brandon by his arms, struggling to carry the weight on my shoulders. Once I settle on a grip, I push the door open with my foot and walk out with a forced ease on my otherwise stunted face. Thankfully, no one glances in my direction longer than a second, probably assuming he is just another victim of a couple too many shots of vodka. Some sober idiots offer to help carry him, but I refuse and bear through the occasional stumble on the mildly condensed snow— the flash of the headlights of my car, giving me a sense of approaching success. I manage to settle him on the back seat, and rush over to mine before the ache in my joints can power through.

The two hour long drive is spent in torturous circumstances— the closed windows strangling on my dry throat and the radio's poor signal providing me with a silence I didn't ask for. Every time the car goes over a speed bump or even a patch of unevenly laid gravel, I can hear the shuffling of his body in the back seat. Not to leave out the numb I feel, when a cop car passes by in the near distance. The same goes for the ring of my phone, but that doesn't happen more than once. I wonder why Jake hasn't called up or at least texted me about why I am late? Although, there's a strong chance, I lost connectivity when I entered the freeway.

A sense of relief washes over me as I pass the brightly lit hoarding of Clide's, indicating the destination is now close. I let the freshly painted speed limit signs waver off the corner of my eye, shifting gears in a bid to make it to the barn. The speedometer dwindles to the right, and so does my tense grip on the steering when a blur of green comes rushing on the deserted road. By the time I pull over to the side, I realise I failed to dodge the flying figure.

I reluctantly shift my gaze to the rear view mirror, watching a trail of blood follow the tire impressions — the dazed green now laying in the form of a cuffed blazer hugging the body. As if on cue, the strap of the seatbelt wallows down to its home, forcing me to step out and check on the repercussions of my rum infused mind and body coordination. Closing the door behind me, I take baby steps towards the splotches of red bordering the crime scene. I inspect him from a safe spot— going by the slight stubble on his cheeks— but close enough to observe the stillness of his body. I cannot make much of his features from the crimson masking over it, but his clothes bring a vague memory to the mind. The olive green blazer paired with same hued tailor cut pants, and the logo stitched on the white shirt are all elements of a uniform. It isn't easy to point out the school this guy probably goes to, but the card peeking out of his shirt's pocket might tell something. I extend my hand to pull the card out and make use of the free one to pinch my nose— keeping the overwhelming odour at bay.

While the card isn't in a great condition itself, the faded words on the top are clear enough to be read. "DixonValley High," I recognise the infamous name and the tremble in my voice as I read further. "Kell Rhodes."

The card slips off my hands and falls back on the corduroy blazer wrapped over Kell. I stare at it— at him for a while, before leaving him be for good. This is a highway after all, and there isn't anything suspiciously new about a hit and run in the midst of the dark due to certain reckless actions, They'll dismiss it an accident within a week or two, filing the case alongside the rest of their cold cases of elite New Yorkers found dead under mysterious circumstances, tied to a common thread they'll never reach. Nothing to worry about at all.

I convince myself of it while I tread to the barn and leave a lifeless Brandon the same place we tied one of those kids to, except then I wasn't heavy with regret and my eyes welled vermillion. Without another look back, I drive back to the city, but opt for a different route than the ceremonious one I took while visiting. It's over two in the night, and the radio is now playing instrumentals by a couple of amateur musicians. The blizzard has reduced to a film of pre morning fog, wrapping over the windows of my car to act as a smog to my greying face and spiked pulse consequential to what I have done.

My phone is on the verge of blacking out not unlike how I'm feeling, but powers through with a final call. I can't take a proper look at the flashing screen, but Archie's redhead doesn't go by me. What is so urgent?