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Griffin came home at two in the morning.

I was wide awake, sitting on my couch, the TV humming low in front of me when I heard him. For once my neighbors weren't shouting in German or vacuuming at odd hours of the night and I could hear his footsteps. I heard Griffin slam his fists against something, curse loudly, and then the sound of his keys falling to the floor. The noise made me shoot up and, without a second's hesitation, pull on a pair of slippers and walk out into the hallway.

The scene in front of me made me flash back to the first time I met Griffin: him standing out front of his apartment, struggling to get the keys in the door, and me offering to help him. Only this time Griffin wasn't shooting me a dirty look; he had his head pressed against the door as he groaned lowly, his keys half-under his shoe.

"Need some help?" I asked quietly, remembering our conversation from only a few hours prior. I had no idea what state of mind Griffin would be in.

Griffin looked up at me, blue eyes narrowing for a second before he dropped the defensive gaze. He bent down and picked up his keys, shoving them into the lock with unsteady motions, "I told you to stay in your apartment, Emmy."

Griffin walked into his apartment and I trailed behind him, making it halfway through the threshold before he turned, blocking my entrance. Griffin put one hand on the wall next to him and one hand on the door, body shielding me entirely from getting into his apartment. His jaw locked as he stared down at me, posture rigid, not moving a muscle.

"Yeah, well, you also asked me to look through case files - which is illegal, in case you forgot," I said, not caring how harsh my voice came out at that moment. He wasn't going to pull this again - push me away after asking me to do something so risky, "You don't get to push me out, Griffin. Not now."

Griffin reluctantly backed away from the door and turned, leaving me enough space to slip in. There was something about the way he did it, though, that just struck me as wrong. He was still panicked - that much was obvious in the way his hands shook and eyes darted - but he almost seemed resigned. Griffin was acting the way someone act when they lost something important to them. Only, in this situation, I didn't understand what he lost.

"Wait here," Griffin said, voice drifting as he made his way down the hallway.

I did as Griffin said. I walked over to the couch and sat down, eyeing the messy array of papers that scattered his coffee table. There were newspaper clippings and photographs, manila folders, and even a piece of paper with our police district's number printed on the top of it. I wondered how many hours - how many days - Griffin spent sitting there, looking through those files for an answer.

I wondered how much someone could desperately such for something before they lost it. Whatever it was; their mind, their care for what they were looking for, their lives.

I wondered how much Griffin had lost because of what some sick bastard did to his mom years ago, and the thought broke my heart. I had been looking at Griffin's mental state this whole time, but never thought about what else he lost in his life. He clearly didn't have a relationship with his father, and the relationship he had with Grant was so painfully fragile that it was hard to watch. Griffin lost his mother, and, by the way he acted now, a normal life. He lost everything.

Griffin came back in a few minutes later, the box of case files held between both arms. I watched as he sat down on the chair across from me and put the box down, flipping open the lid quickly. His fingers traced the edge of the box before he looked up, legs protectively covering each side of the cardboard box.

"You wanna know?" he asked, voice void of all emotion. Griffin's hands were still trembling by his sides and I looked up, locking eyes with him. He quirked an eyebrow in question and I slowly nodded, "Then let's talk."

Griffin leaned back and then forward a second later, running his fingers through his hair before he cracked his knuckles. I leaned forward, too, heart nervously thumping so loudly in my chest that I was sure the boy across from me could hear it. All this time I wanted to know what Griffin knew - for him to let me in - but now I was having my doubts. I was nervous. I didn't know if I really wanted to hear what he was about to tell me.

"I'm going to talk hypothetically," Griffin said slowly, rolling his shoulders as he spoke. His face was pale, blue eyes lighter than usual, and I locked my eyes on the way his lips moved tiredly, "You just need to trust me, okay?"

Griffin held out his hand to me, fingers extending slowly until I understood the message. I scooted over to the edge of the couch and clasped his hand in mine, giving him a slow, reassuring squeeze. I caught Griffin's eyes and smiled tightly, swallowing past the lump in my throat to whisper out an, "I trust you."

There was a pregnant pause and I waited, my hand clasped between Griffin's, our eyes locked on each other. It was two in the morning and my heart pumped with fear, eyes darting around the dark living room. I wasn't afraid of Griffin - not at all. He was the only person that I trusted, in that moment. It was everything he was about to tell me that terrified me.

"Let's say that I, hypothetically, had an inkling about who the murderer is," he started, but I cut him off before he could say anything else.

"An inkling?"

Griffin's eyes darkened, "More than an inkling," he said, jaw reflexively locking. Everything about Griffin was going onto defense mode - his jaw was locked, shoulders tense, eyes darting from mine to somewhere else. I was afraid he would shut down before he even began, but then he spoke again, "And let's say, hypothetically, that you were a therapist. A psychologist."

Griffin stared at me, then, eyes filled with hesitation as he waited for me to say something. I didn't know what he was doing - why he was doing hypothetical roles - but I nodded slowly, squeezing his hand lightly again. None of the nervousness or fear drained from his face like I hoped, but he continued.

"You knew this person - this murderer - but you weren't their psychologist. You, uh... you notice something was off about them, though. So you kept case files - fuck, I don't know. You wrote information down about them. Behaviors. Ticks. Things that psychologists write. You wouldn't want anyone to find this information out, so where do you put the file?"

I frowned, caught on the fact that the psychologist - me, whoever Griffin meant - hid the files, "So you're protecting them?"

"No, you're protecting yourself," Griffin paused, fingers squeezing mine tightly before he realized what he was doing and loosened his grip, "Maybe. I don't know, okay? Where would you hide case files?"

"Not my office," I said, trying to put myself into this situation. Griffin was staring at me desperately, eyes pleading with me to give him an answer. So I continued, rattling off anything that came to my mind, "That would be too risky, in case someone found them. I would take them to m - my house, maybe? That way you could keep an eye on them."

Something flashed in Griffin's eyes, understanding or something of the like. He dropped my hand and stood up, fingers clenching into tight fists by his sides. He paced in front of me, mouth moving but no words coming out. I stood up, too, but stayed in front of the couch, waiting for him to say something. Griffin understood something that I didn't.

He paused and turned to me, thin lips mouthing words before he finally spoke, "And if that person found the files, they would be mad, right? Maybe even so mad as to physically hurt the person."

"Or kill them?"

Griffin nodded slowly, but I still didn't understand what any of this was meant to mean or explain. He had given me a hypothetical situation, and I wasn't even sure if he knew who the killer was. I didn't know if that was a hypothetical, too. He had given me all possibilities, but nothing solid that explained anything. Griffin had managed to give me answers without giving me anything.

I tried to put what he said together, though. I had to make it make sense. A psychologist had written case files on someone who, presumably, had something wrong. Said person found the files, got angry, and attacked the psychologist for writing down these things about them. I just didn't understand what a psychologist writing an unmarked file had to do with Griffin's moms murder.

And then it hit me.

I stood straight up and turned to him, a chill running up my body, "Your mom was a psychologist."

Griffin's eyes widened a bit, but he nodded, a timid look on his face, "She was."

"That's why you asked me to go through her case files," I said, a quiet gasp escaping my lips. The fear I felt earlier had elevated into full blown terror now, and my whole body shook, goosebumps rising on my skin, "To see if the file was still there. Right?"

It was terrifying, to know Griffin had me looking for a secret case file that had gotten his mother killed. It was terrifying to know that his mom knew who the killer was - to know that Griffin was this close to figuring out who it was. It was most terrifying to know that the person she had written the file on had to have been someone close to her. Someone she could see daily and notice ticks about.

"But it wasn't," I continued, and Griffin leaned against the wall, head dropping against it, arms coming up almost like he was protecting himself from hearing my words. He didn't seem shocked, though. More like he was trying to protect himself from hearing his thoughts spoken, "Which means that the person took the file."

Griffin nodded against the wall and pushed himself up, taking long-legged strides through the living room. His back muscles were taut, shoulders rigid, and I wondered if I was saying things he had already figured out. But Griffin turned to me, eyes the coldest shade of blue I had ever seen, and continued.

"Why would you keep case files that could - I don't know. Incriminate you, I guess," he mumbled, just loud enough for me to hear. I frowned at that, too, because it meant Griffin knew the case files weren't destroyed like I assumed, "It doesn't make any fucking sense."

Just like Griffin, I was now desperately searching for an answer, "Maybe if you would tell me instead of just saying hypotheticals - "

"Be quiet," Griffin said suddenly, pressing a finger to his lips. I opened my mouth to say something, but Griffin started walking forward slowly, inching towards the door. In the sudden silence we had plunged into, I heard what Griffin had heard. Footsteps. Loud ones, it seemed like, pounding up the staircase.

I walked forward, feet dragging along the floor in an attempt to keep as silent as Griffin had. I stopped a few feet behind him and listened, catching the sounds of someone jogging up the steps to our floor. The noise stopped suddenly - a few seconds of silence - until I heard footsteps walking down the hallway. They were quieter now, deliberately taking slower steps than before.

Griffin turned to me, jumping back a bit when he saw how close I had gotten, "Go into the bathroom," he told me in a whisper, "lock the door. Don't come out no matter what you hear, okay? You need to stay in there."

"Griffin - "

"This isn't up for debate," he snapped, putting his hands on my shoulders and steering me towards the hallway. His fingers were digging into my shoulders, "I didn't ask for you to be here for this. You put yourself in this position, but I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. So please, please, just fucking listen to me, Emmy."

Griffin stopped in front of the bathroom and stared at me, lips drawn into a tight line. He was trying to look brave, but I could see the complete and utter fear in his eyes. He didn't know what was about to happen or what situation I had put myself in, and I could tell. Griffin was just as scared as I was, only he was much, much better at hiding it.

"Griffin!" a familiar voice called, and then someone was banging against the door, "Griffin!"

"Grant!" I said, breaking the whisper that I had been keeping earlier. I went to walked forward, but Griffin grabbed my shoulder and held me back. He pulled open the bathroom door and urgently tried to push me in there, "It's Grant."

Griffin gripped my shoulder tightly, "I don't know that."

And then Grant said words that would be forever burned into my brain.

"Open the goddamn door, Griffin, you know I fucking did it!"

:)) so I never do this, but I might post the next chapter tonight/tomorrow because I'm really excited for it lmao

remember to let me know your thoughts! love you guys!