It's time.

It's finally time I take the initiative and unveil a part of Harry's past that could help some pieces fall into place; time that I conjure up a plan that is foolproof and flies under the radar of my parents; time that I do something I should have done weeks ago.

It's time to break down the wall.

Not entirely, though. I've thought it through, and the reason Harry can't get through that wall must be because whatever we may find in that room connects directly to his death, and once we break it enough to see inside, Harry should be able to pass through to the room it conceals. Should.

If not, well, that's another problem.

I've begun to plan. My parents go LARPing (I am still not quite over that awkward sounding acronym) in about a weeks' time, and so I will have the house to myself. After they leave, Harry and I can break down a part of the wall, and once we're done, I'll hang a family portrait over it. A rather large family portrait. I'll have to go through our pictures.

Another thing to consider is how to break the wall. My father owns tools that I know he keeps in the garage, but I'm not sure where. The only option here is to ask him about a sledgehammer or something of that nature (I know he owns at least that) and say it's for a friend's engineering class or something at school. I haven't quite got my lie figured out, and honestly I hate to lie to my dad, but at this point I'm far too determined to solve Harry's murder.

The school days pass at their regular painstaking pace, and I make a point to avoid Ava and Estella as much as I can. Well, avoiding Ava hasn't been hard, because she's practically been avoiding everyone as well. She seems sulky and drained of energy most days, hardly talking to anyone but Max. I catch the fleeting looks Estella gives me at lunch and try to ignore them.

October rolls into November as the leaves finish dropping from the trees, dry and brown and crinkling under shoes. The days become shorter and the air crisper, the smell of rain almost perpetual as the days slide by. The road is slick with last night's rain as I drive home from school, and I wonder how exactly last night's rain hasn't at least dried a little off the roads by now. Clouds block out the blue of the sky, leaving the day feeling dreary and tired.

My father is home early, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of Earl Grey tea and a book. He smiles at me when I walk through the kitchen door.

"How are you?"

"Tired," I answer, setting my stuff down on the table and slumping into a seat beside him. "This weather makes me moody."

"Want some tea?"

I shake my head. "I've actually been meaning to ask you," I say carefully. "Do you think one of my friends could use one of your tools for some project they have? It's for one of their engineering classes, or something." I shrug.

"What do they need?"

"I'll ask them, I don't know for sure," I say. "I'll get back to you."

"No problem. It's not like we use the tools much anyway."

"Yeah." I nod.

I talk to my father for a bit longer before going to my room, shutting the door and leaning back against it, sliding down so that I'm sitting on the ground.

Harry steps through the window and takes a seat on my bed.

"Feeling lethargic I see," he observes.

"It's the weather," I say. "And figuring out how to break the wall."

He leans back to rest his weight on his palms. "You asked your dad about the tools?"

"Yeah. I just need the key to the shed he keeps them in. I'll get it by next weekend, I'm sure."

"Cool."

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, leaning my head back against the door as I feel a headache begin to thud in the back of my head. These few weeks have been filled with headaches alike, with school being annoying and Harry's murder becoming more and more clouded.

"You okay?"

"I don't know. I'm really tired. I haven't been sleeping well."

"Why?"

I haven't told Harry about my nightmares. They don't occur that frequently, I've only had the two-but most nights I'm up thinking until the early hours of the morning. I've wondered if I should tell him about the dreams, though. They could be simple dreams that mean nothing, but they were so intense that I tend to think otherwise.

I answer Harry's question with a simple shrug, opening my eyes to meet his. I study the curious green pigment in them, so pale and light, like the color of frosted sea glass you would find nestled in the sand at the beach.

"Do you think we would know each other so well if you were still alive?" I ask him out of nowhere.

He blinks, the corners of his mouth quirking down in a small frown. "If I were still alive, you wouldn't be living in this house."

"Right. But it's likely we would go to the same school, and such."

We stare at each other.

"I don't know," he says.

I don't know either.

"Can we talk about something positive for once?" Harry asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his concentrated frown shifting into a small smile.

"Like what?"

"Like..." Harry pauses and laughs. "Do we honestly have nothing positive to talk about?"

"We're just really negative, I guess." I smile back at him.

"Well, two negatives make a positive, right?"

"I don't want to do any math," I groan, rolling my eyes. "I barely passed that last quiz."

"I don't blame you. I nearly failed math in my last semester."

"I hate school. But I want an education."

"How's Romeo and Juliet going?"

"Same as always. Blaming Benvolio for everything."

"Benvolio? How do you figure?"

"He's a total bystander! He stood by and watched Tybalt kill Mercutio, he peer pressured Romeo into going to the party where he met Juliet in the first place, the list goes on. If he wasn't there, Romeo never would have gone to that party and fallen in love with Juliet, and both of them would have been alive in the end."

"I guess that's technically true," Harry says. "But if Romeo and Juliet hadn't met and fallen in love, would the Capulets and Montagues have ended the feud at the end?"

"No, but they only made amends at the end because their children died!"

"You could analyze practically any character from the play and blame them for the death of Juliet and Romeo, the star crossed lovers," Harry says.

"Yeah, that's true. Like Friar Lawrence. Or Lord Capulet. But mostly Benvolio."

Harry smiles. "What about the stars that crossed them?"

I lift a shoulder. "Perhaps."

Harry shrugs. "I blame fate for their downfall, I guess."

"Or Benvolio."

"Or Benvolio. But mostly fate." Harry smiles at me.

Harry and I go back and forth discussing who exactly is to blame for the downfall of the star crossed lovers, and in the end we decide to pin the blame on Shakespeare himself for writing such a tragedy. Damn you, Shakespeare.

When my mother calls me down for dinner, Harry presses a kiss to my lips and sits back on my bed, grabbing an old yearbook of mine off my bookshelf, telling me I absolutely rocked the pigtails in second grade.

-

When I call Ian the next morning, Saturday, he answers on the fourth ring.

"Hey, Jane. What's up?"

"Ian, hi. I have this broken mirror that I accidentally shattered a little while ago and I need to go get an appraisal for it to see how much it'll cost to get fixed. I was wondering if you'd like to come keep me company?"

"Sure, no problem. I'd be happy to."

"Great. I'll pick you up."

I hang up and start my car, backing out of my driveway and following the directions Ian texts me to his house.

Now, I know I sound absolutely insane right now for asking Ian, a possible murder suspect of Harry's to tag along with me to get the appraisal. Like, Jane, what the shit are you thinking? Do you want to be possibly murdered by this guy?

The answer is no, I don't want to be murdered, but I have thoroughly thought this through. By asking Ian to come with me, lots of things could be figured out. Ian could 1. recognize the frame of the broken mirror, 2. be recognized by Clyde and his wife at the window shop, or 3. get nervous about the entire thing, all of which would confirm the fact it was him that brought the mirror to be fixed.

So I'm not entirely crazy.

The Whitmore residence is a quaint brick house not too far from the police station with hedges in the front and a car parked in the driveway. I pull up in front of it as Ian steps out of the front door, turning around to lock it behind him.

He gets into the passenger seat of my car, offering me a smile.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi." I shift into drive and pull away from the sidewalk, heading downtown to where Clyde's is.

"So, how'd you manage to break a mirror?"

I half smile. "Uh...I got angry and threw something at it and it shattered." Well, it's the truth.

Ian laughs. "Nice."

We make small talk until I park in front of Clyde's, asking Ian discreetly if he can help me with the frame of the mirror, as it's a bit bulky. He complies and I watch his expression carefully as the two of us lift the mirror frame. His composure doesn't falter.

"Nice frame," he comments as we carry it into Clyde's Windows and More.

"Thanks," is all I say as the bell jingles on the door.

It's Clyde that greets us from behind the counter as Ian and I set the mirror down. "Morning kids," he says. "Finally deciding to get that fixed?" He asks me, nodding to the mirror.

"Uh, I think I just need an appraisal for today," I say, paying less attention to the mirror and more attention to any interaction between Clyde and Ian. The two hardly acknowledge each other, however, outside of polite smiles.

Clyde goes on about a possible price for the mirror to be fixed. I don't really listen. I'm monitoring Ian mostly, but there is zero recognition on his face.

I am so confused.

"Well, thank you," I say to Clyde when he finishes talking. "I have to speak to my parents about it and I'll probably be back."

Clyde nods. "Have a great day!"

"You too."

Ian and I walk out of the store in silence.

"This is a nice part of town," I comment lightly as I set the mirror back in the trunk of my car.

"Yeah, I don't get down here much," he says. "I didn't know a window shop could repair mirrors, either."

"Oh," I say, faking a laugh. "Yeah, they do. They do glass replacements and stuff."

"Cool. Good to know if I ever need a glass replacement." He laughs lightly.

On the drive back to Ian's house, I bite on my bottom lip so hard I draw blood.

"Is your mom at the station?" I ask him as he steps out of my car, bending down to the window to talk to me.

"Yeah, she's there until eight. You need to see her?"

"Just to ask if there's any updates on the case."

"Oh. Yeah, she should be there." Ian smiles.

"Thanks for coming with me," I say, returning his smile halfheartedly.

"No problem. See you around, Jane."

As soon as he disappears inside his house, I step on the gas pedal and drive straight to the police station.

I walk directly into Detective Whitmore's office and rest my palms on her desk. She's on the phone and gives me a quizzical look before hanging up and crossing her arms over her chest.

"What?"

"I might have some evidence."

"Really."

"I accidentally shattered a mirror that was hung in my room and there were blood stains on the baseboard along with a slight indentation in it. It was in the house when we moved in."

Whitmore stares at me with her eyes narrowed. "You're hinting that Harry Styles was backed against this mirror?"

"The autopsy mentioned glass shards in the remaining clothes and back of the body."

Whitmore nods slowly.

"Another thing." I pause, standing back and sitting down in the seat across from Whitmore's desk. "There was a seal on the back of the mirror from a store that repaired it on June ninth. When I went there to ask if they recognized the mirror, the people said they did and they told me who brought it in."

Whitmore's eyebrows shoot up. "Well? Who was it?"

I swallow. "They told me Ian brought it in the morning of the ninth."

"Ian? As in, Ian my son?"

I nod, exhaling slowly.

Whitmore shakes her head. "How-"

"Wait," I say, putting a hand up. "Today I took the mirror in to get an appraisal for a repair and Ian came with me. He didn't seem to recognize the mirror, the shop owners, or even really the area of town."

Whitmore stands and begins pacing behind her desk. "Ian couldn't have been the one to bring in that mirror. That's preposterous. Listen, I love the kid to death, he's my son, but his acting is shit. There's no way he could've faked not knowing the mirror or shop owner today." She stops walking and grabs her jacket. "I'm going down there to do some questioning. You're gonna need to come to give me directions."

I nod and follow Whitmore out of her office.

-

"Detective Jennifer Whitmore, Castle Hill Police Department," Whitmore says, holding up her badge. "I'd like to ask you some questions, if that's okay."

Clyde and his wife Nora stare at the detective with slight trepidation. Clyde gives me a confused look briefly before turning his attention back to the detective.

"Is something wrong?" Nora asks.

"You didn't do anything wrong, folks, relax," the detective says, offering them a small smile. "I just have a few questions about this mirror." She motions to me and I set the mirror on the counter before them, the blood stain in plain sight.

"We have reasons to believe this mirror could have been involved in the murder of Harry Styles. Now, according to Miss Marx, you told her it was my son, Ian Whitmore, that brought this mirror in to be repaired the morning of June ninth."

"That's the name he gave," Clyde says. "Ian Whitmore."

"Did the boy resemble the young man that came in to get an appraisal on the mirror with Miss Marx here this morning?" Whitmore gestures to me.

"That was Ian Whitmore?" Clyde asks disbelievingly.

I nod as the detective says, "yes."

"That didn't look like the kid that came in on the ninth at all," Clyde says.

"Please describe the looks of the young man that came here on the ninth."

"Darkish blonde hair, I'd say," Nora says, looking to her husband. "I can't remember the color of his eyes. He was slim, muscular looking. He was very rushed."

Whitmore scribbles everything Nora says on a notepad, clicking her pen shut when she's finished. "Thank you very much," the detective says. "You two have been of great help. I apologize for impeding on such short notice."

"It's no problem, we're happy to help," Clyde says and Nora nods along.

"Wait," I say as Whitmore begins to walk towards the door. I turn to Clyde and Nora. "Did you not notice the distinct...stains when you first repaired this mirror?"

"We didn't think much of it," Clyde says. "People bring in all sorts of things. We don't know enough about each of our customers to judge."

"But...the stains are...blood, aren't they?"

Clyde and Nora shrug. "We didn't think too much of it at the time," Nora says quietly.

I nod and thank them again before the detective and I leave.

I read over Whitmore's notes on the ride back to the police station.

"So the prime suspect is slim, muscular, and has dark blonde hair," I say.

"And they're young, a kid," Whitmore adds. "I suppose I'm going to have to call in some kids from CHHS for questioning. Especially the kids close to Harry." She slams on the brakes at a red light. "OBEY THE RULES OF THE ROAD!" She shouts loudly at someone running the light.

I let out a breath as Whitmore begins driving again.

"When will you start questioning?" I ask.

"Tomorrow," she answers. She pulls the car into a spot in front of the police station. "Be at the station tomorrow at eleven. You're key to this case now, kid. Good work."

-

The questioning room is a perfect square with walls painted a light cornflower blue and a metal table in the center, a chair on either side.

So basically, your typical interrogation room.

I sit next to Ian behind the two way mirror that separates the interrogation room from the observation room. It's a large sheet of glass that allows us to see into the interrogation room, but those in the interrogation room can't see us. I'm jittery and nervous feeling, although I can't tell why.

The first boy to walk into the room is a nervous looking boy that fits the description Clyde gave. I recognize him from school-I'm pretty sure we have English class together.

He sits across from Whitmore carefully.

"Morning, Scott," the detective says, propping her feet up on the table.

He nods in greeting.

"Relax, kid," she says, half smiling. "You're not in any trouble as of right now."

Scott doesn't relax.

"Now," the detective says. "You knew Harry Styles, yes?"

He nods slowly. "Not well. I knew of him, but I didn't really know him personally that well."

"What did you think of him?"

Scott shrugs. "I thought he was cool, you know. I went to a few of his parties and we talked a few times there. He was really funny, I remember."

"Where were you the night of June eighth?"

"I don't really remember," he says. "That was the day right after school ended, right?"

Whitmore nods.

"I was out of town. My family left for Bermuda the morning of that Saturday."

Whitmore asks a few more questions. It was clear Scott was not going to be a suspect.

The day passes slowly as guy after guy is asked the same questions without prevail. I begin to get bored and start considering going home.

That is, until Max walks into the interrogation room just past two o'clock in the afternoon.

I sit up straighter in my seat, and Ian stiffens beside me.

"Afternoon, Max," the detective says.

Max looks calm, and not worried like the other guys. He sits across from Whitmore easily, sighing. "Afternoon," he returns.

"How are you doing?"

"All right. And you?"

"Stressed, but when am I not." Whitmore smiles wryly. "Now, let's begin. You were Harry's best friend during his life, correct?"

"That's correct."

"And you were with him the night he died?"

"Right."

"Was there any conflict between the two of you leading up to the eighth of June?"

The corners of Max's mouth turn down. "Not that I recall."

"Where were you the night of the eighth?"

"Harry's house. We had a small gathering there. Nothing big."

"Who else was there?"

"Uh...Ava, Nate, Jenna, Estella, and a few others I don't remember."

"And where were you the morning of the ninth?"

"Soccer practice. Summer soccer camp started that morning."

"And did anything seem wrong to you? Did you know Harry was missing?"

"I left his house the night of the eighth and nothing seemed wrong."

"What time did you leave?"

"I don't remember. It was after dark, that's all I remember."

"One last question, Max."

"Shoot."

Whitmore leans forward. "How much did Harry trust you?"

"Fully," he answers without hesitation. "He trusted me with practically everything."

"Thank you, Max. You're free to go."

-

"I heard it. I heard Max's questioning."

I look at Harry who sits in the front seat of my car this time rather than the back seat as I drive down the highway. I chew on my lip. "How?"

"I was behind you and Ian. I was in your car the whole day until I saw Max walk in and I...I had to hear."

I look straight ahead at the road. "Harry, I really think...I think he could've done it. Did you see him? He was completely calm in there like he'd rehearsed his answers."

"No way, no way in hell," Harry says, an edge to his voice. "Max wouldn't have killed me. We've gone over this before."

"Harry, it keeps coming back to him. He and Nate got mad at you over the fact you made Ava mad that night. The description of the person that brought in the mirror to the repair shop fits him. Weeks ago he was laying flowers on your gravestone. He's got a guilty conscience."

"Or maybe he just misses me, Jane. He was my best friend, we knew each other since...since...forever. Why would he kill me?"

"Maybe because he was jealous? Come on, he was clearly always in your shadow. You as the star player on the soccer team, you as the most popular kid at school, you as the heir to a huge company, you dating Ava. He probably was secretly

***
Yet another unfinished chapter. I have no clue how many there are, but I'm so sorry. I have no control over it. I'm sorry, guys. My apologies.