Sandy stood in front of her messy wardrobe on Friday evening, looking upset. Her hands on her hips, loose auburn braids covering her face, she sighed loudly. What was she going to wear? She was to meet with Mark Tito later on.

Sandy knew she'd be lying if she said she didn't feel a pinch of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. Spending time with Mark alone felt scary.

When she caught a sudden knock on the door, she answered, barely looking behind her shoulder, "Come in."

Tricia walked in, the creaking sound of the door distant in the air. Her footsteps grew louder as she approached.

"Are you going out?" Tricia asked as she cast her eyes at the wardrobe.

Sandy turned at the sound of her mother's voice. She glanced at her briefly before looking away. She had been avoiding her mother for the past few days, choosing to hide in her bedroom.

"Yes," she said, plopping down onto the edge of her bed.

"Meeting with Cynthia?"

"No."

"Who?"

Sandy sighed, pushing her braids off her face. "A friend, Mom. It's not like you know all my friends."

Tricia walked towards the open window and glanced at the sky wistfully. She watched quietly as billows of clouds settled around the hot sun, drawing in an eventide.

"Sandy about your father..."

"I don't want to hear about it."

"He was not a perfect man. He had his flows."

"Well, good to finally know."

"He was a good father -"

"Right. Of course. A round of applause for him."

"I will not have you insult him, Sandy."

Sandy glared up at her mother. She wondered why she was defending him. "All this time...I...I've been blaming myself. Had I not argued with him that evening, he'd still be here. Here with us. I can't even remember what we were arguing about. All I know is that I led him to that road. But now that I think about it. He had a choice. He could have stayed. Instead, what did he do? He left. Maybe even the plan was to see his dearest mistress."

"That's where you are wrong. He left the house because he had received a call. He was to meet with someone. You know, had you not been so self-centered, you would have known what was happening in this house," her mother responded, then walked out.

Sandy thought she heard the pain in her mother's voice.

**********

Sandy arrived at Mark's house, wearing her faded summer jeans and a blue Big Bang Theory t-shirt that was pretty much just as faded as her jeans.

These were her comfort clothes.

Certainly not what she would have wished to be showing up at Mark's house wearing.

Well, at least, she had shown up. That was effort enough, wasn't it?

Her mother's words still lingered in her mind. Sharp like a knife. A raw ache. She wondered if truly she had failed to realize what was going on between her parents.

Standing awkwardly outside the door, she fixed her face and then knocked on the brown Swahili-themed door.

Mark Tito appeared at the other end, a smirk playing on his lips. He was dressed in a light grey drawstring pant and a plain white tee. His hands were tucked in the front pockets of his pants.

Sandy felt a sudden rush in her veins when her eyes met his. She supposed it had to do with the way his gaze lingered on her face, taking her in as though it was the first time he was truly looking at her.

"Look at what the cat dragged out," he said, the crooked grin still heavy on his lips.

Sandy looked behind her shoulder. "You do realize Haley is just around, right?"

Mark followed Sandy's gaze. He caught the bike next to the white picket fence, propped upright on its kickstand.

"That was not part of the plan."

"Didn't know we had a plan."

"Yeah.. yeah, I forgot you got selective amnesia." He pulled the door wide. Sandy stepped in.

The warm smell of something cooking hit Sandy's nostrils. "You making tea?"

"Yes. It gets rather cold here. Plus, I figured you'd want some."

"Huh-like you could tell?"

Mark led her past the living room, down the hallway, and then into the backyard.

"Just a second," he said as he quickly disappeared back into the house.

Sandy cast her eyes around the fenced-in backyard, taking in the familiar surroundings. She'd been here long enough to make out the shape of the ridges along the red brick paver that cut across the yard. The squeaking sound from planters wrapped in vintage bowls that hung from the awning merely rang a similar tone to her ears.

She had known Mark for the longest time, but never once had she been here alone. It was always either she was with Cynthia or a couple of her other friends.

When she heard the clearing of a throat behind her, Sandy turned, her eyebrows raised in question as she stared down at the open carton on the ground.

"What am I looking at?" she asked, her voice dipped in mirth.

Mark cocked his head like a dog would do when excited. "Balls. You are staring at balls. Tennis balls, to be precise."

"A weird obsession going on here?"

"Be nice. This is my collection," he said, mocking hurt on his countenance.

She crouched to her knees and began to inspect the hollow, green rubber balls. They were mostly chipped and dirty. She suspected the carton contained at least twenty balls. "This is what you wanted to show me?

"Uh-yes... but here's the fun part."

Sandy stared up at him. She stood to her feet. "What part?"

Mark took a ball from the carton and threw it at the wall. It landed with a loud thud, bouncing off and finally resting on the green grass.

Sandy regarded him curiously, "What are you doing?"

"Here. Try it." He placed a tennis ball in her hand. "Throw it."

Sandy stared at the ball, stared at Mark's hand, and then thought of her father. She hurled the ball and watched as it bounced off the wall. She grabbed another ball and another and another until her hand fell limp. Dots of sweat began to form on her forehead.

"How does that feel?" Mark asked.

Sandy caught her breath. "Exhilarating. That was awesome. My shoulders hurt, though."

"When last did you exercise?"

Sandy laughed at his question. "That's a joke, right?"

After sitting on a wooden bench in the backyard, with amber rays from the setting sun fleeting on their faces, Sandy expressed surprise. "I didn't know you played tennis," she said.

"I don't," Mark replied. "I volunteer as a facility assistant at the Impala Club. They have an indoor court. Most of the chipped balls end up being destroyed. I just find a better use for them."

Suddenly, a realization struck Sandy.

She pulled out her phone from the front pocket of her jeans and called Preston Arina. After a few rings, he answered.

"You were right about the brother. He was not particularly honest with us," she said.

"What do you mean?" Preston asked.

"I searched through the box containing Diane Rucho's personal belongings and came across her photos. I noticed that all of the photos were of her alone. Initially, I didn't find it strange and thought that maybe she wasn't very social. However, I recalled a photo I had seen at Gerald's house. The photo was taken at Diane's place, and in it, Diane was standing next to Gerald, and they both seemed very happy. I believe the photo belonged to Diane. What I'm trying to say is that I think Gerald only revealed what he wanted us to see and kept the rest hidden, like the diary in the box, which had some torn-out pages. I hope I'm not boring you with all this information."

"No, not at all. Actually, I think you might have something valuable here."

"Also, I found a payment receipt from Amara Restaurant inside the box. The date on the receipt was the day before her murder."