It's dark in my room. Warmth encompasses me as I lie in bed, surrounded by warm blankets. I'm fast asleep, or at least I was. I guess something must've woken me up.

Then I feel it, a creeping sensation along my arms, up my spine. It's this lively heat, this energy, that I've been feeling more and more lately. It's almost suffocating at times.

The heat creeps closer and closer, threatening to close in on me. I want it to go away, to leave me alone, but it won't.

There's someone nearby. It's the feeling of a life, of blood and energy beating close to me. Fear grips my heart, squeezing until my heart beat is a panicked, allegro rhythm.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Someone is near. I can feel it. Are they in my room? Are they going to attack me?

I just want them to leave. I'm too young to die.

Slowly, I raise my head, glancing around my room. The heat radiates in doubles along my skin, a two-fold terror. I scan the shadows for the intruder, but I don't glimpse anyone, anything.

A tired, not-fully-thinking boldness spreads over my limbs, and I dare to sink my toes into the carpet. I walk across my room to an open window that's letting in a cool breeze. It's that time of spring that's between summer and winter, cool enough to have blankets, but refreshing to have the window open.

That's when it hits me. Not a breeze, but a sudden chill as the two-fold sensation evaporates, leaving only half the warmth on my skin.

Energy is gone. A life is gone.

Someone just died.

My eyes burst open. Cold sweat beads on my forehead and arms. I don't feel even a flicker of heat, just an icy chill that has gripped my bones.

It takes a moment for my heart rate to deccelerate, for me to process that I'm alone in my room, that I'm not in danger. I crane my neck, and feel a wave of relief.

The window is closed. It was only a nightmare.

Except it felt so real. And it was exactly like what I experienced in the auditorium, only this time, I'm certain now that I've felt that sensation before.

***

Mom is in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove like its some caldron of ingredients. She sets the wooden spoon down on a blue, ceramic spoon rest and looks up.

"How are you doing this morning?" Mom asks, a smile spreading on her face.

"Alright," I mumble as I pass her. Mom's smile drops.

"Sweetie, is everything okay?"

Just had a horrible nightmare. But yeah, everything's fine.

"I'm just tired," I say with a sigh. My fingers grasp the metal handles on our white cabinets. The door swings open, and I grab a tall glass, then pour myself some water from a pitcher.

"Would you like some tea? Coffee?" Mom's voice sounds slightly frantic. It hurts her when she sees me this way. She always wants to end my suffering, yet she's powerless to stop it. As a result, she settles for the next best thing she can think of in the moment, usually something she knows I enjoy.

I appreciate all my mom does for me, but right now, seeing her so desperate to make my pain dissipate, I feel a pang of guilt deep in my chest. I'm making her as miserable as I am. That's why I'm not going to tell her about my nightmare — one less burden for her to share with me.

I force my lips to droop less, force a little more pep into my voice. "Thanks. I should probably stay away from caffeine, but some cinnamon tea would be nice."

"Of course." Mom puts the kettle on to boil, then dolls out some cheesy grits in a bowl for me, topping it with cilantro. I eat it alongside sausage and a biscuit. The room is quiet except for the hum of the oven after being turned on this morning.

The biscuit is warm when I bite into it. Mom brings me a cup of tea, and I notice the dark circles under her eyes for the first time.

"Mom, why don't you sit down and eat with me?" I say.

She hesitates a moment. A smile reluctantly pulls at her lips. "Okay." A moment later, she's seated beside me with her own breakfast bowl filled to the brim. We eat in silence for a few minutes before her phone pierces the air. Mom leaps from her chair and grabs her phone off the counter.

"Hello?" she says. I set my spoon down in the grits to watch her. "Yes, this is Mrs. Filmore. I, uh, don't know." Mom quickly glances at me. "I mean, are you able to ask her therapist first? She has an appointment this afternoon. Perhaps... yes. I think that would be best. If she gives the okay, then we can come in tomorrow afternoon. Okay, have a nice day."

Mom hangs up her phone and places it back on the counter. She sinks into her seat, staring at her bowl. Her eyes look vacant, and I get the sense that she's only holding her composure together because I'm here.

"Who was that?" I ask.

"The police. They have a few more questions for you."

"Oh." This couldn't be good. Do they have evidence proving it was me? Did they find my fingerprints on him? I wasn't wearing gloves. Then again, maybe I found a random pair of gloves backstage and put them on before picking up the rope.

"I told them that we need the go-ahead from Amber before they do more questioning," Mom says. "Since you're in a more..."

"Fragile state?" I cringe at the words leaving my tongue.

"Yes. A more fragile state." Mom sighs, lacing her fingers together and resting her chin on top. "They only want your witness account. You know that, right?" I nod. "There's nothing tying you to the crime."

Though I nod again, it's without conviction. The dream last night has heightened my concerns to a whole level, especially since it seems like this might not be the first time I've felt a life fizzling out.

This might not be the first murder I was present for.

***

Amber sits in the chair across from me, crossing her legs. She's always put-together, today wearing jeans and a coral button-down with a floral pink scarf wrapped around her neck. It's nice talking to someone who at least looks like they have all the answers, even though we both know that's not entirely true.

"So, how have things been?"

I think for the best word to describe my week. It wasn't good, or even better than previous weeks. But certain moments helped alleviate my anxiety, like talking with Zoe and the kids at school. Uneventful certainly doesn't fit after all the investigating I did. "It could've been worse," is what I settle on.

"That's a start. Do you want to tell me about it?"

I tell her about the group project in class and some of the other assignments. I mention that I also spoke with some people from the drama club to expand who I'm talking to, not mentioning that they were friends with Evan. Amber seems to read too much into that and asks if I'm thinking about joining the club, which she believes would be a good distraction. I tell her no.

"Your Mom told me about the police just a moment ago," Amber says. "Has she told you about the phone call?" I nod. "Good. What are your thoughts? Do you think you can talk with them again?"

"I-I don't know."

Amber's eyes trail off to the ground, then return to me. "I assume you haven't asked them about what it would have taken to actually commit the murder, right?"

I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I just didn't feel very ready the past two weeks."

"That's okay. Perhaps it's for the best."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, how do you feel about trying to get more information from them?" I make a face, and Amber slightly smiles. "That's what I thought. It might not be the best challenge for right now. Though I do want to help bring your anxiety level down about this." she thinks for a moment. "Have you considered talking to your mom? She was a former investigator. She would know if you were capable of committing the crime."

"But I'm concerned she won't be entirely honest with me," I say. "It's not that I don't trust her. We just are so close, and I need the opinion of someone not attached to the case."

Amber nods. "That makes sense." Amber pauses again, and all I hear is the diffuser tank bubbling with lavender. The floral scent fills my nostrils, encouraging me to take deep, calming breaths.

"What if I did some research?" Amber asks. "As a completely impartial outsider, I could ask around and find out the specifics of whether a person of your height and stature could realistically drag a teenage boy up a ladder, tie rope around his neck, and then hang him from the ceiling."

I mull over her words, unable to comment.

"We also have to consider that he's probably struggling and screaming in the process. It seems to me that there would be quite a fight between you two. Who do you think would win?"

"I... don't know." I glance at my arms. There's more flab than muscle on them, same with my legs. Then again, Evan looked like a stick hanging from the ceiling, his arms and legs like muscled bones.

"If we were talking about someone else, what would you say?"

Again, I don't know. "If I were smaller, or he were bigger, then maybe I'd be able to answer. But I have no gauge of how our strengths match up."

Amber thinks. "Okay." A few beats pass. "So, what do you think will be most helpful to talk through this week? Because I want to give you another challenge that will make you feel empowered and less stuck in a state of uncertainty."

"Yeah. Speaking of challenges, I'm not going to be able to do the one we talked about a few weeks ago."

Amber's head tilts to the side. "Remind me."

"Where I go to the conference that my mom was going to give that talk?"

"Oh yes, I remember now. I totally forget about that one. We've had enough exposure to death and murder in the past few weeks."

"My mom decided she's not going to go," I say. "She thinks it will be better for me that way."

"Of course."

"I guess that's also less time that she'd spend digging back into files to prepare a talk on the Old Oak Bridge Murder. I feel kind of bad because she's spending so much of her time taking care of me and trying to make me feel better..." My voice trails off. Amber has stiffened, her back straighter than usual. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes. yes of course," Amber says. "But did you say, Old Oak Bridge Murder? That was the talk she was going to give?"

"Yeah."

Amber nods. "Well, that's fine that your mom canceled. It's probably for the best."

I nod slightly, though I can't shake how strange her reaction was.

"Why don't we talk through this guilt you feel?" Amber suggests.

I tell her about how terrible I feel about having taken up so much of Mom's time and making her miserable. It's like she takes all the pain I'm feeling onto herself.

"Well, that's often what parents do. When they love their kids very deeply, they can't bear that they're child is suffering. They are supposed to provide and take care of their kids, and they feel helpless and out of control when they can't make their children's suffering go away."

"I wish there was something I could do that would help her worry less."

"I'm afraid these things take time."

My eyes drift to the clock. With only fifteen minutes remaining, I have to make this time count.

"Do you think I'm ready to talk to the police again? Do you think it could have a serious degradation on my mental state?"

"Probably not," Amber says. "Do you feel ready?"

"Not at all. I'm honestly really scared to talk to the police again."

"Why is that?"

"Because the more they question me, the more I wonder if I'm a suspect. It's like they've found more evidence against me and are trying to get me to confess."

"Are they being coercive in their questions?"

"No... at least I don't think so."

"Then what makes you think you are a suspect in their questioning?"

"Because they're asking me about the crime."

"But don't they also ask witnesses about the crime? I'm sure they also interviewed the principal, janitors, and anyone else who was in the school at that time."

Like the drama club members. Except most of them had already left, and they made it sound like they were asking more questions of the friends of Evan, rather than questioning them as people at the scene of the crime.

"I think the other thing that's eating me is the dream I had last night."

"Oh?"

"More like a nightmare. I dreamed that I was in my bedroom, and it was night outside. The moon was shining outside my window, and I woke to the sensation that someone was nearby. I got out of bed, and just when I reached the window, I felt that person's life disappear. The energy just evaporated into thin air."

"Hmm." Amber nods along, though her eyes have an odd wariness in them.

"And then, when I woke up, I was struck by the strangest sense of deja vu. Like this isn't the first time I've felt that feeling of a life slipping away."

"Meaning, that you recalled feeling that sensation when you were in the auditorium?" Amber asks slowly.

"No." I swallow. "Like, it's not the first time I've felt someone... die."

"Interesting." Amber leans back, though there's a tension that hardens her features. "Dreams can sometimes give us strange senses like that. They can blur the lines between reality and fiction, making us question what events and feelings have really happened to us."

I glance down. "True. The dream felt awfully realistic. That's what made it so nightmarish."

"Let me know if you have any more strange dreams like this."

"Sure."

Amber's eyes shift to the clock. We only have five more minutes. "Tell me, what did your bedroom look like?"

My head tilts to the side. "Like it always does. Bed in the middle, chair on the side with some pillows on it, desk on the right..."

"So it was your current bedroom? It was familiar, not a room you haven't seen before?"

"Yeah, my current bedroom." I shift in my seat. Where is she going with this?

"Okay. I'm just curious because sometimes, the settings can give deeper clues into your psyche. For example, if it was a room you've never seen before, it might reflect that you feel like you're in unfamiliar waters right now, navigating a difficult reality you've never faced."

I nod vaguely.

"I think your challenge this week," Amber says after a moment's pause, "is two-fold. I think you should speak to the police. If anything, it may alleviate some anxiety by showing that you have nothing to hide."

And yet, I feel like I have everything to hide. I just wish I knew what I was hiding.

"I also want you to relax and try to enjoy yourself when you can. I know you have classes, but try to see some friends after school and socialize in your classes."

That one isn't as hard. I'm doing plenty of that with my miniature side investigation.

As I stand to leave, Amber's words filter back in my head, swirling around so they're all I can think about.

My dream was in a familiar room — my current room. Does that mean I've been through this before?

Does that mean I've killed before?