The next day passes in a blur. Before I know it, classes are over, and Mom is driving me to the police station. The doors slide open automatically when we approach, and I step into a small waiting area with a few chairs. Only a few officers are inside the building, and a man sits behind the desk in a blue uniform. The female officer leaning against the counter straightens and lumbers off toward a hallway lined with closed doors.

"How can I help you today?" the man asks.

"The police wanted to speak with Madelyn Filmore again," Mom says. "She was a witness to a crime, and is here to talk with Officer Lui."

"I'll let her know that you're here. Please take a seat."

We sit down on the hard upholstered seats in the waiting area. Nerves prickle up my spine as I wait there, anticipation building.

Minutes later, a door down the hall swings open and Officer Lui approaches us.

"Hi, please follow me." Her lips spread in a smile, adding to the wrinkles on her cheeks. She has a kind demeanor, and I feel myself relax for a moment. Then the weight of the situation closes in on me again, and my muscles go rigid.

I sit stiffly on one of two chairs in Officer Lui's office. Mom takes the one beside me. After closing the door, Officer Lui sits across from us, in front of a giant computer that looks like it's from the 90s.

"We just had a few more questions for Madelyn," Officer Lui says. Anxiety builds steadily inside me. "We need to speak to her alone."

My pulse spikes. It's now an allegro thump, thump, thump, thump. Blood thrums in my veins, so fast it feels like a throbbing pain.

"Of course," Mom says. She flashes me a tiny smile before leaving.

I feel so vulnerable, more vulnerable than the first time I spoke with them. Maybe it's because I've had time to process more, obsess over all I might've missed, all they might've found that incriminates me.

This is no different than the first time you spoke to them. Remember what Amber said? It's less suspicious if you're just free and honest with the information you give them.

"Amber has told me a little more about your situation," Officer Lui begins.

Well, that's awfully vague.

"I'm just going to cut to the chase. You're free to stop talking at any time, and can share whatever you feel comfortable with." I nod, my hands beginning to shake. I clench them together in my lap. "Are you on any medication for your anxiety?"

I blink in response. This is not the question I am expecting.

"Yes." I rattle off the names of the two prescriptions I'm on, as well as their doses.

"Interesting. Have you ever self-medicated with non-prescribed pharmaceuticals or recreational drugs?"

"No," I say, mystified as to where this is going. Being on anxiety medication should help my case as it is helping take the edge off my anxiety and behaviors. Then again, some medication can increase reckless behavior, as well as lead to other side effects. During Mom and my extensive research, blackouts never came up as a side effect, but perhaps it is in rare cases.

I'll have to research more into blackouts when I get home.

"None whatsoever?" Officer Lui raises a thin eyebrow. "Past or present?"

"No, none."

"Have you ever been prescribed xanax in the past?" Officer Lui asks.

So that's where this is going. My mind flashes back to what Pierce and Kayla told me at the lunch table. I guess what they said is true.

"I've never even seen a xanax bottle, much less a xanax pill."

"So no xanax?"

"No xanax."

"Okay." Officer Lui's fingers clack against her keyboard, her stubby fingers drumming at the keys at lightning speed. When she looks up again, she says, "have you ever considered self-medicating for your anxiety?"

"No."

Officer Lui nods, types a little more, then pauses. She asks a few more questions about the crime scene: did I see anyone leaving the building when I was standing outside waiting for the police, etcetera. I feel myself relax only slightly. It seems that their questions mostly relate to things I've already told them, which makes me feel marginally better. Maybe they really are just trying to clarify my story.

Officer Lui looks up from her screen, eyes fixed on me. "You mentioned before that you thought Evan was the blind date you were going to meet."

I swallow. "Correct."

"How would you know that he was your date?"

"I-I just assumed." My hands tremble, and I clasp them together in my lap to stifle the movement. "Can't you verify with his phone?"

The Officer's head tilts. "I'm sorry?"

"I mean, if he got a message from the dating app on his phone, couldn't you see if he was also meeting someone in the auditorium?"

"Unfortunately, he did not have his phone with him when he died. In fact, we can't find it anywhere."

A lump forms in my stomach. "But can't his friends confirm that he got a message on the dating app?"

"Yes, they claim that he did receive a message. There's no way to know if he was matched with you or someone else, though."

I feel myself sinking in my seat. This feels bad, really bad. I'm entirely sure why, though. I mean, so what if they can't confirm it?

Do they think I'm lying? Making up stories?

"So, you just assumed he was your date?" I nod, and the officer notates something on her computer. "Well, I think that's all we need for today. We'll call you back if we need to discuss more with you."

My feet feel glued to the floor. A question is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't bring myself to ask it.

Do you think I could've done it? Did they find anything tying me to the crime?

After an awkward moment, Officer Lui glances at me. I force myself to my feet, though my knees feel like they want to cave in and send me sprawling on the floor. Officer Lui opens the door for me and I join Mom in the waiting room.

"Can I speak with you for just a moment?" Officer Lui asks. She stands in the hallway.

Mom opens her mouth, shuts it, glances between the two of us. "Sure," she says after a pause. She follows the Officer, and the door clicks shut. For the second time, I feel alone and scared.

I sit down on the waiting room chair and slip my phone from my hoodie's pocket. The air conditioning vent must be close by because I feel a draft down my back despite the warm lining of my gray jacket. I turn my phone on, and a notification lights up on my screen. A bright red heart sends warning bells flaring in my mind. Beside the icon, the words read: "Congratulations! You have a match."

Not again. Fear spikes in my veins, and I quickly swipe the notification away. My breaths quicken to a staccato pace. I'm panicking. I don't know what to do.

My thumb presses the power button again. This time, my lock screen displays a text message from Hannah.

I'm not aware of Drake having any socials. He was always a pretty quiet person. I can give you his number, though, if you want to talk to him about anything.

Oh, gosh. She probably thinks I like him. Between this, the officer's questions, and the dating app, my head starts to pound more than my anxious and frantic pulse.

Maybe Evan wasn't your date. Why would you assume so?

Deep breaths. I inhale a long breath, hold it, then slowly exhale. I repeat the same rhythm several more times until I feel slightly calmer. Then, I unlock my phone. The message pops up in my text messaging app. My thumbs hover over the keypad before I type:

It's fine. I was just curious.

There's got to be a better way to speak with Drake than getting his phone number. An idea pops into my head.

What school did you say he goes to now?

I close the app, then scroll to another screen, the one where a giant red heart stares back at me from within the app box's icon. Taking a deep breath, I open the app. There's only one way to take care of this thing. I can't be reminded of what happened every time I turn my phone on. I ignore the red one by the message box indicating that I have a new message. Instead, I go to the notification settings and click to disable all of them.

There. That should take care of things.

Perhaps I should just uninstall the stupid app. I want nothing to do with it ever again. But part of me also wonders if losing my account and the messages between me and evan is a good idea. What if it comes in handy as evidence?

Why would I want to preserve evidence convicting me?

So many questions and so few answers make my head spin. I click out of the app. All I know is that it might be important to be able to return to the messages and the app. Perhaps it could provide a clue as to the truth behind the murder. Because even if I'm the culprit, wouldn't it be better to know that than continue in a state of ignorant bliss?

I don't have any of the answers.

A message icon appears at the top of my screen. Hannah has replied.

He attends Liberty Memorial High School. It's technically in Barkersville, not Oakland Heights, but it's the closest school he can attend that's public.

It seems that a stakeout of Liberty Memorial High School is in order.