I woke up the following morning with puffy eyes and a hollow feeling in my stomach. It took a while for my brain to remember the events of the previous night, but when I did remember, it was like a tower of bricks falling down inside my skull with a loud crash:
Lou's dead.
He was shot.
Victoria's pregnant.
A whole town grieves.
I let out a deep sigh and rolled over, staring at the wall. I didn't really want to get up. I didn't want to face everyone else, didn't want to struggle to hold back tears during normal conversations, didn't want to discuss the horrible news.



It was my first experience with death. I was surprised at how well I was handling it. I'd always imagined how I would react to the death of someone I knew, someone I was friends with: I'd collapse into a depressed, shocked state of mind, staying in my room for days, crying at the drop of a hat for no apparent reason, other than remembering a sudden moment connected with the deceased. I thought I'd never be able to look at a picture of them again without bursting into tears. I thought I would take weeks, if not months, to heal.
Instead, I felt as though my mind had divided in two. One half was emotional. It was angry and sad and empty and everything else you'd expect a mourning person to feel.
But the other half shocked me. It made me feel like I was, deep down, a cold, heartless human being. It shrugged, and thought, So he's just not going to be around any more. I can live with that. It suppressed the emotional half of my brain, overriding any notion of hysterics, as though it was telling it to grow up and snap out of it.
It was this side of my brain that caused a numb, passive feeling to invade my body, prompting me to get out of bed and start the day as though nothing much had happened. It's just that there was one less person around.
I drifted through the morning. I ate breakfast like a robot with my family – none of us wanted to talk about the previous night's news. I had a shower, brushed my teeth, got dressed, and sat down at my computer to start the schoolwork for the day.
But my mind wandered, unable to concentrate on the lesson. I tried another subject, but to no avail. I felt like there was something I had to do before my mind would settle. I believe it had something to do with my anger.
I stood up, left my desk, walked downstairs and announced that I was going for a walk. No one objected.



As I walked towards Lou's shop, I wondered why I felt so compelled to find answers to his death.
Teenagers only solve crime cases in unrealistic storybooks, I told myself. In the real world, it's the police that do the case-solving. Sometimes, the case isn't even solved.
It's not that I don't trust Christopher. I just want to see something for myself. Ask some questions.
As if he'll answer them anyway.
He might – he trusts me.
It's a police case. He can't give you details.
I can try.
Is this how schizophrenics feel?
"Stop it," I muttered to myself.
I soon found myself outside Lou's shop. It had yellow police tape stretched in a border all around the perimeter, and Christopher's car was parked out the front. The shop seemed to have a completely different atmosphere: empty and impersonal. Lou had always filled it with life. Now it was full of forensic investigators with cameras, fingerprint dust, plastic bags and numbered markers. A makeshift memorial had already started to sprout up next to the letterbox.



I stood there for a while, looking in at the scene, until Christopher noticed me and came over. "Ellie, what are you doing here," he asked quietly, shaking his head sadly.
I shrugged. "I was just curious," I said.
"You shouldn't be here," Christopher said.
I pointed to the tape. "Hey, I'm on the right side of the tape," I pointed out. "Technically, I'm allowed."
Christopher let that one go. "Were you after something from the shop?" he asked.
"No," I replied. "Do you have any suspects yet?"
"You know I can't tell you—"
"You don't have to tell me who they are, just if you have any," I interrupted.
Christopher pressed his lips together. "We are currently questioning two women who are helping us in our enquiries," he told me.
I smiled. "I'm not a journalist. You don't have to talk like that."
Christopher sighed. "Just used to it, I guess."
"So, it's Adrianna and Lola then," I said quickly, trying to catch him off guard.
It worked. He didn't say anything, but I saw a slight flicker of alarm in his eyes. He quickly replied, "I didn't say that."
"But who else would the two women be?" I asked.
"There are plenty of women in this town, in case you haven't noticed," Christopher pointed out.
"But even to me," I said, "they seem like the obvious choice, don't you think?"
Christopher frowned. "I think you should not try to solve this yourself, Ellie, and leave it to us."
"Actually, that's exactly what I was telling myself before I came here," I said truthfully. "Don't worry. I'm not trying to solve it. I read too many stories where people end up in huge trouble if they get involved."



Christopher seemed to relax, and gave me a half-smile. "That's good."
"Found the murder weapon yet?"
"Ellie…"
"Just asking."
Christopher looked tense now. "Well, I'm not answering," he replied sternly, just as a voice crackled over his radio: "Still no sign of the murder weapon, Chris. We've searched the grounds and the house, inside and out."
Christopher sighed, glaring at me. I just smiled back at him as he responded to the voice on the radio.
When he'd finished speaking, he sighed. "I have to get back to the investigations," he told me. "I strongly suggest you go home."
I nodded. "OK. I'll do that."
Christopher nodded. "Good."
He started walking away. I was struck by a sudden thought.
"Hey, Christopher?" I called.
He sighed, turned around. "What is it, Ellie?"
"Who's going to run the shop now?"
He shrugged. "It will belong to whoever he says it belongs to in his will."
"Do you know—"
"Not yet. Goodbye, Ellie."