11 - Revelation

I startle awake to the soft tap of knuckles against wood. I'm submerged beneath warm sheets, blinking blearily, and, sitting at my side, Sam's vague form flickers as he studies the notebook lying open before him.

Eager sunlight streams in through the thin curtains, casting a warm, speckled glow over my messy room. I really need to unpack all my shit instead of making piles and calling it organisation.

Right as my door creaks open, Sam meets my gaze, smiles softly, and asks, "Did my theories bore you to sleep?"

"Theo, honey," mum says, pulling my sleep-softened attention. She's dressed in her nurse's uniform with a bag slung over her shoulder. "Sorry for waking you up. I've got a shift, so lock up when you leave, alright? Leftovers are in the fridge— I tried waking you up last night but you were out cold."

"I'm always cold," I dismiss, rubbing my eyes as I try to come awake properly.

"You've got a year before university, darling, so don't wear yourself out too early," she continues, sending a pointed look to the notebook. She must think it's a particularly in-depth analysis of that murder-mystery book Cliff gave me. Her gaze slides harmlessly over Sam, as though he's nothing but empty air. I suppose, to her, he's exactly that.

"I won't."

"University?" Sam echoes with a grin. "I didn't know you were smart."

"That's debatable," I mumble.

Sam stifles a laugh, even though only I can hear him. I appreciate the sentiment, anyhow.

"What was that, hon?" mum asks, frowning lightly at me.

"I said, 'have fun at work.'"

She smiles, suspicions doused at once. "You, too."

Once the door clicks shut behind her, and once her creaking footsteps fade into silence as the front door slams shut, I roll onto my back and stretch.

"I remember something," Sam admits.

I gape at him, startled. "You do?"

He nods, vague brows pinching together as he lifts his incorporeal gaze to mine. "I remember telling Ryan about my crush, when the girls went to explore and Nathan was pissing in a bush."

I pull a face at that lovely image, my opinion of Nathan staying right where it is on the floor, but it quickly falls. "You remember all that?"

"Bits and pieces. I remember he looked... hurt, or angry, or something. So I left before things could get more awkward. Then it all goes dark again."

"That's good. I mean, not that it was awkward, but it's good you remember that," I manage, desperately trying to clear the sleepy smoke from my mind. I offer him a smile. "Maybe you don't need my help solving this after all. Maybe you're figuring it out for yourself."

Sam fervently shakes his head and gestures to the notebook. "No, I've spent years trying to remember something, and all I got was the sensation of being shoved. I think there's a reason you can see me. It's like you're helping draw it out, helping me... confront it, you know? Instead of just wallowing in pity for the rest of forever."

"Hey— we all need to wallow in pity every now and then," I defend, gazing up at the chipped ceiling as I think over my breakdown last night with fresh eyes. It did feel good to vent, I have to admit, instead of letting it drown me. "I'm gonna speak with Ryan today and find out what he knows, even if it kills me," I tell him, determination coating my voice; a suit of armour.

Sam snorts, bemused. "Please don't joke about that."

"Sorry," I say with a laugh.

The prospect of a fresh start and a new day to tackle this murder case has me venturing out of the warm sheets and into the icy conditions of my bedroom. I dress quickly, too cold and too distracted with my thoughts to worry about remaining decent beneath Sam's attention.

Besides, he's determinedly staring down at the notepad, trailing his vague fingertip over my scrawled notes as his brows pinch.

"Theo?" he says, glancing up at me with wide, ashen eyes. "Just... be careful, okay?"

I shrug on a thick coat I've yet to take downstairs, frowning lightly. "Yeah, of course. See if you can remember anything else while I'm gone. I'll see you soon, alright?"

"Alright," he echoes.

He seems entranced with the notebook, so I leave it with him and head downstairs for a quick breakfast of cold, leftover takeout food.

All too soon, I'm locking the shrieking gate behind me and wandering down the unkempt, overgrown lane down towards Eden's Gate. As I walk, I think up all the questions I want to ask Ryan. Maybe, if I'm really desperate, I can bother Angela again. And I'll have to try Nathan and Emily, too. They gave me nothing, yesterday, except a bruised ego.

But first, my focus is on Ryan.

The day is shaping up to be another bleak one, but at least there's no sign of rain clouds— just a wash of steepled, light grey blocking out the sun. It's freezing and leaves twirl a ballet before me as I shove my hands into my pockets.

As luck would have it, I escape the icy air and desolate streets into the library and find Ryan Hendricks stocking shelves. Just the person I want to see.

I falter, having expected to ask Cliff for his whereabouts and explore the town all day in search of him, but I shake off my surprise and approach. Clearly, after the argument yesterday, he's here to rebuild some bridges with his dad.

He gives me one fleeting glance before turning his attention back to the shelves. He's... well, not shabby, but... disgruntled. His brows are torn and his features are set in a grim, stoic way. Unkempt stubble shadows his jaw, as though he's missed one too many shaves. He's a knife left to go blunt; deadly at first glance, but harmless upon closer inspection.

At least, I hope he's harmless.

"My dad's in the back sorting out stock, if you need help finding something," he says before I can even open my mouth to ask a question.

I clear my throat and stay exactly where I am. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you. Ryan, right?"

"That's right," he assents gruffly, pulling out a particularly shabby copy of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and staring at the cracked spine in vague disgust. This expression lingers as he glances at me once more, which makes me feel thoroughly exposed to his judgement. "And you are...?"

"Theo," I fill in.

Something behind his gaze goes dark. "Ah. You're the volunteer," he concludes, looking delicately aggrieved, as though I've chosen to spite him by working at his dad's library. "What do you want?"

"I, uh... Look, this is a bit random, alright? But it's for college. I have some questions about what happened to Samuel Thorpe back in the nineties. I found an article that says you and a few others were there with him, that day. No offence, but your other friends have been useless."

Ryan makes a disgruntled noise and shoves the book back into its place. "You've got that right, kid. You want to know about Sam?"

"Social studies project," I say with a helpless little shrug. "It's due next week, so I'm getting desperate."

Distantly, I realise just how easy lying has become, these past few days. Sam is a bad influence.

He breathes a heavy, exhausted sigh and turns to rest his shoulder against the shelf, as though the mere mention of Sam has sapped him of his energy.

I forge on. "Do you remember him much? And... Do you remember what happened that day?"

Something raw and painful shimmers behind his eyes; an explosion off in the distance. "I never forgot him. Or that day," he says softly, even as his piercing gaze holds me frozen in place, fixed under his close attention like a fly caught between his fingertips. "I kept checking in with his family, every now and then. Well, until his parents passed a few years ago. They moved away after... after the accident, but I felt I owed it to Sam to make sure they were alright, all things considered."

The smile I force onto my lips is fleeting and distrustful. "That was nice of you," I comment. The words taste ashen and clog up in the back of my throat.

He bristles; shutters go down behind his eyes and hide that raw agony behind a wall of stoic nothing. "It was common decency. And it's more than I can say those bastards you called my friends have done."

I back up a little and raise my hands, placating. "Alright— so they're not your friends. How come?"

"Isn't this about Sam? Not my tricky relationships?" he counters, with one of his torn eyebrows looking increasingly sceptical.

I backtrack. "I'll get a higher grade if I connect what happened back then to what's happening now."

He hums uncertainly, but I hold his clinical gaze until he relents and shoves up the shutters behind his eyes. "I don't like talking about what happened that day, kid. If I could turn back time and make sure he left with me, I would."

Of course. The whole 'Sam stayed late' story. As though anyone would leave their friends and instead wander around an old, creepy house on their own.

"Understandably," I allow. Then, I decide to push a few buttons. See if I can goad him into talking. "Still, at least they say he died instantly. It wouldn't have been painful for him."

Ryan goes still. I see some flicker of raw, fiery agony flit across his features with all the suddenness of a bird startled to flight. I watch as he forces those shutters down — this time encapsulating his whole face — and his jaw ticks as though the emotions are trying to claw their way out.

"Like I said, I don't like talking about it," he dismisses in a cold, hard voice that lights a warning signal in my blood. I recognise the signs. If I keep pushing, he's going to snap. I've struck a nerve.

Behind me, the bell twinkles to announce a new customer, and I hear a muffled conversation simmer down into little whispers to accommodate the abrupt shift walking into a library demands.

Ryan's gaze lifts over my head, and at once his features twist with the same level of disgust he'd shown Frankenstein.

"Stay here, kid," he says, abruptly stalking past me.

Curious, I turn around. The suddenness of their appearance hits me like a strike to the face.

Nathan and Angela glower at me. Between the stoic sentries, Emily determinedly stares at Ryan, as though I'm not even here. When Ryan reaches them, they engage in a rushed, whispered conversation and he leads them further into the library, and further away from me.

It would be rude not to eavesdrop, I figure. Especially given who they are and what they're covering up. So I sneak round the aisles of books, doing a foolproof impression of a library clerk rearranging stock, until I hear them talking around one of the quiet study tables set up in a dim, bleak corner of the room. Usually, college students rule over those tables, spreading their notes and their frustrations over everything, but the library is quiet today. A perfect hideout for a secret conversation away from prying eyes.

I take up cover behind a shelf, and can just about hear a muffled conversation.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" Angela hisses. "He was round my shop yesterday, Ryan. And Nathan's place. Asking all sorts of questions."

Ah. So the unusual meeting last night was most likely about me, and now they've come to see what Ryan knows.

I'm not sure whether it's the youth in me, or if it's some ghost of Poirot that possesses me to make the most of my assets, but I pull my phone from my pocket and start to voice-record. They're all huddled in the most unobserved corner of the library (excluding me, of course), speaking in hushed tones. It's a secret meeting if ever I've heard one, and whatever they say — these lying murderers — I figure it'll be best to have a copy of it to show Sam. Or the police.

"Who, Theo? He's harmless," Ryan dismisses. "He won't be any trouble."

"Well, you'd better hope he's not," Angela says with a displeased grunt. "If he keeps digging, you know what he'll find."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Ryan, that's enough," Nathan says. He sounds tired, though that could just be because his friends are exhausting.

"He's not going to find anything. There's nothing to find," Emily insists. "I want to know what article's dragging this back after all these years. Haven't we suffered enough?"

I bristle, fighting against the urge to storm round the aisle to defend Sam. He suffered; they left him. They don't deserve pity, and they aren't entitled to self-pity, either.

Someone sighs heavily.

"Who's going to sort it, then? Stop him from digging and dragging it all back up?" Angela demands. "Well? Any takers? Ryan?"

"Why me?"

"I think you have the most to lose if word of this gets out— don't you?" Her voice rises in a sickly sweet way; dripping with venom. "It's your life that'll be ruined. After all we've done to help you through the past three decades, you owe us."

"I don't owe you shit," he bites back, louder than before.

A hush falls over the table, and chairs squeak as I imagine their occupants glance around to check for eavesdroppers.

Their conversation drops to hushed murmurs I can't quite make out, but I'm already ending the recording, shoving my phone back into my pocket, and rushing for the exit. Cliff will have to manage without me, today.

I'm fairly certain I've just cracked Sam's murder case wide open.

The dreary meander of townsfolk is upended as I rush back up the lane, leaving the twinkling bell of the library door and stray fluttering leaves in my wake.

Never in my life have I drawn so much attention to myself, and as I dart back towards the decrepit lane leading to Solus Estate as though the devil himself is hot on my heels and breathing down my neck, people lost to their vapid lives startle to clarity. Old ladies are gasping, disgruntled middle-aged men are muttering about the youth of today, and college students out on their lunch break recognise my hasty retreat and quickly move out of my way, whispering theories ranging in severity from forgotten assignment to shoplifter.

Never in my life, either, have I ran so fucking fast for so long, and the beacon of Solus Estate is a welcome sight by the time my legs are burning and my lungs are seizing with the strain. Vaguely, I realise I need to start going to the gym again— and then I realise that the closest gym is Nathan's and I'd rather die than give him my money. Gasping for breath, it is.

The gate screeches against my assault, slamming against the old wall bordering the place with a resounding crash. The colossal monstrosity of the estate looms over me. I've never been so happy to see this place in all my life.

There's no time to close the gate, and I race for the front door.

I burst inside and slam the door shut. "Sam!" I shout into the empty, dim hallway. My own voice shouts back at me, mocking and high with mingling terror and exertion.

By the time Sam emerges from the direction of my room, smudgy and wide-eyed, I'm leaning against the door to keep upright, gulping down deep breaths.

"What the hell's up with you?" he greets, rushing down the stairs to meet me, but being careful to keep his footing even despite the fact that, if he should trip, his head would go straight through the newel post instead of smacking into it. "Theo? Are you having a heart attack?"

"I hope not," I gasp out, desperate to gain some control. "I... I figured it out. Who did it. I think— your shitty friends, they came to the library asking for Ryan, and— holy shit, give me a second."

"Theo, breathe, for God's sake!"

"It's Ryan!" I exclaim. "They were on about him having the most to lose if I find out who did it. Angela said that Ryan's life will be ruined, so they're going to try and stop me from figuring it out. They're defending him."

Sam recoils with a melodramatic gasp. "What do you mean, they're going to stop you? Are they planning on killing you, or something?! The bastards!"

I hear the familiar, grumbling hum of an approaching car engine, and figure my mum must've finished her shift early. In any case, I rush the words out before she can come in and cut our debate short.

"You said this morning you told him about Nathan and he seemed angry, and I just found out he's the only one who kept in touch with your parents, like he has a guilty conscience— shit, Sam, I think they've just admitted to it all."

"They told you all that?"

I shake my head and pull out my phone. "No, I— I heard them. They didn't see me— I recorded it. They don't know I know."

Before the last echoes of my voice die out, I feel a thundering at my back as a fist pounds on the door I'm using as a crutch.

Mum, I realise as cold, dawning horror slides down my spine, would have a key.

Sam darts to look out the window to my left, and he lets out a little squeak. His form flickers as he meets my gaze; a candle's delicate flame against a harsh wind. "I, uh... I think they know you know."

Another round of harsh, echoing knocks that rattles my brain.

With a steely breath, I turn, clutch the doorknob in a fist made iron with rising terror, and open it.

Standing outside, head tipped back to survey the gaping mouth of Solus Estate's morbid, yawning silhouette, is Ryan Hendricks. Suspect number one.

Oh, fuck.