Clarissa pushed the door open and stepped inside Marley’s apartment. Thanksgiving had passed in a blur without her spending time with her brother, thanks to someone who decided that a 100 milligram of fentanyl would be of greater use in her system. She had said a firm No when Marley had offered to drive her home. She just needed some time alone to herself. Peering through the window, she leaned down to stare at the street below. It was hard not to believe Flynn’s story about the cologne. But she couldn’t stop thinking what if. What if Flynn had been the killer all along. What if he had played to be all nice to get close to her. if memory served her right, after the night she had met him, the murder cases started pouring in. it was just so hard to ignore all the telltale signs. But what if she was wrong? She thought. What if it wasn’t him? what if It was just really a ploy to get her to suspect Flynn, while the real killer ran amok. She sighed deeply. All these things were slowly beg

She had noticed how Claire and Sydney had been trying to avoid talking to themselves. They couldn’t even meet her stare. It was weird because it was the first time something like that was happening and worse, she couldn’t place what had happened. She didn’t try to get them to talk or tell her what had happened. It wasn’t her fort. That would be Sydney’s. So, a cold, foreign silence settled between them while they all had breakfast that morning. She ate hers as fast as she could and then kissed the two of them goodbye before heading to work. The snow had let up and the sun peeked from behind thin, grey clouds. Not that winter was ending any time soon, just the start of what seemed like a less gloomy day. She still hadn’t called Marley ever since she left his apartment, something she was going to rectify that day. She still had to document Maddie’s exam; another thing last week’s hospitalization had robbed her of. And, Penelope.She had completely forgotten about the gir

Clarissa trudged up the stairs of her apartment, weariness written all over her features. She barely made it inside her room before succumbing to the tiredness and slumping on her bed without taking any of her clothing. Her bags had been left right in front of the door. Sleep soon claimed her and she fell into a dreamless sleep.Or not.The night was sultry and balmy. The leaves in the trees didn’t move either because the night was so still. Even the nocturnal insects were incredibly quiet that night, crickets and all. A girl sat crossed leg just beside a little shrubbery, staring out into nothingness. Her brown hair fell down her back in waves. The little girl was eleven. She wondered how she could tell the girl’s exact age. Leaning back on her arms, she watched the clear sky. Mosquitoes bit into her skin, drawing blood and leaving bumps in their wake. She didn’t swat them away though. A door creaked open and the girl’s eyes snapped towards the direction of the sound. A man's burly

He still reeled from the kiss he had seen Clarissa and Flynn share the night before. The thought of it had him kicking an empty can by the curb. Why the hell would she let him desecrate those lush lips? He thought. The skies didn’t look as gloomy as it did the day before and the snow came down in gentle flurries. The sun hid behind the low hanging clouds. Hands In his pocket, he strolled down the bustling street of 58th avenue. He eyed Clarissa’s apartment as he walked by, taking notice of the black, tinted vehicles sitting beside the curb. FBI agents. He glared at them. he needed to do something about the amount of rage in him before he did something as stupid as barging into Clarissa’s house and blowing his cover. Another empty can flew into the air as he kicked it and the helpless can landed a few meters from him. It wasn’t unusual for him to get that much pent-up rage. But often, he’d had ways of controlling them. Now? Not so much. The police were on high alert and the slight

she glanced down at her phone and then at the house number plastered on the sign post in front of the house, a bungalow. The text on her screen and the shiny black ink on the sign read the same number, 42. She had been spooked from the very moment the text had popped up on her screen. A text from her anonymous online friend who had introduced himself as a hacker. Backtrack to the day she had met him. Not met him literally. More like met him online. Just a random pop-up notification on her Facebook app and suddenly, they were close acquaintances. Well, what was the use of having a hacker friend if they couldn’t do one or two favors for her, she thought. She had sent him the mystery guy’s pictures and seconds later, he turned up lots of information on him. when she had asked how exactly he had been able to gather that info on the guy at such a short time, he responded with, ‘We have our ways.’She had come to know the Mystery guy as Kennedy Macaulay. But her mind often referre